


Hunger (Of the Pine)

by Ashlyn17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 03:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashlyn17/pseuds/Ashlyn17
Summary: A fic in which Cas is an upscale food critic and Dean can cook the shit out of pretty much anything, Dean’s business is in danger of being taken away from him, and they both suck at communication, all of which turns into the clusterfuck Sam would affectionately refer to later as “The Great Month from Hell” ....





	Hunger (Of the Pine)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Destiel fic (and fic in general actually), so I'm super excited to post!  
> I've never done a collaboration or anything like this before, but working with skyhighjelly made it so much easier. She's such an amazing artist and person (say hi to her at http://peanutbutter-jelly-fish.tumblr.com)  
> I beta read myself, so there may be a few typos.  
> I hope you enjoy! :D

**Part one: You Didn’t Need Your Dignity, Right?**

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

**__** _They wanna get my gold on the ceiling/ I ain’t blind, it’s just a matter of time_

 

As much as it pains him to say, Dean’s surprisingly used to getting up at the ass-crack of dawn. Not that it was an easy process. He’s missed his fair share of early-morning shifts because his stupid brain would tell him that ‘just five more minutes’ roughly translated into a couple more hours sleep. But that doesn’t mean at all that Dean is a morning person. Usually it takes him anywhere from half an hour and half the day to completely wake up, and today is no exception.

Dean grumbles when his alarm goes off. He snakes a hand out of the mess of blankets that he calls a bedspread, much to Sam’s protests, and punches the damn thing off. Dean sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes against the harsh glare of the red numbers in the darkness of his bedroom. He glares moodily at the alarm clock, as if it’d somehow decide that it wasn’t three thirty in the goddamn morning and that he could get a couple more hours of sleep in. He sighs and pulls himself out of bed, not even bothering to make it.

He trudges down the hallway connecting his bedroom to the small room falsely advertised as the kitchen, used to navigating his way in the dark. Grumbling about it being way too damn early, Dean turns on the coffee maker and stumbles his way into the shower while it brews. Once he’s convinced he’s used up a day’s worth of hot water, he steps out, wraps himself in a fluffy white towel, and looks at his face in the fogged-up mirror. A layer of stubble sits on his skin, enough to be noticeable, but not quite enough to warrant the extra effort of shaving. Dean dresses in the early-morning light, tugging on a well-loved pair of pants and a black t-shirt, covered with one of his many flannels. He turns on his phone and heads back to the kitchen, pouring the steaming coffee into an eco-friendly coffee mug that Sam had forced on him for Christmas. He can practically hear his brother’s voice resounding in his head, _You’re saving the environment, Dean! What’s the downside?_ The downside is that it makes him look like a fucking soccer mom running late to drop her kids off at school.

Dean jumps when his phone chirps from where it’s lying on the counter beside him. He swipes it open and reads the text. It’s from Sam, telling him that he won’t be able to come in until lunchtime because his class got rescheduled. Dean sighs, but texts back an _Ok, no problem_ , though it’ll be hard to manage the lunch rush with one less server. It’s not like he can fault the kid. Sam’s still in college, working hard in NYU’s pre-law program. His job at Dean’s restaurant was only ever meant to be a part-time job to help him pay for his inevitable student loan debts, even though he had gotten a generous scholarship. Apparently, education doesn’t come for free.

Reluctantly, Dean screws the lid on his travel mug, pulls on his shoes, grabs his keys from the little blue bowl on the table by the front door (also from Sam), and heads out the door before the sun is even up. He locks his apartment and makes his way down exterior hallway and down the stairs of his apartment. It’s not a bad place, even though it’s a small apartment in the middle of New York. It’s clean, has a bedroom, bathroom, and ‘kitchen’, and even gives each tenant a parking space. And hey, he’s only had to butt heads with the complex owner once about the broken plumbing, but any other instances are far and few between.

He sips his coffee like the caffeine addict he is and opens the door to his baby, a fine work, sleek and black and totally out of place in the middle of the parking lot among the other piece of crap SUV’s and mom-cars. He rolls down the windows, and turns on the radio, cringing when Enya starts playing. _Fucking Sam and his new age crap_. As quick as is humanly possible, Dean takes out the disk and throws it out the window, replacing it with Guns N’ Roses. He hums along to ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ as he navigates the hell that is New York streets.

Any sane person would be walking or taking the subway, but Dean will be damned if he doesn’t take his baby for a spin on every given opportunity. Plus he’s always enjoyed driving; it’s strangely therapeutic for Dean. Besides, there are almost no downsides, besides the traffic. Behind him, a taxi driver angrily honks and shouts out the window for Dean to get a move on. Dean flips the bird halfheartedly out the drivers’ side window and thinks to himself, _and the assholes._

He reaches his restaurant at ten till five and pulls around to park in the back lot. Besides the impala, there are no other cars in the lot. Most of his workers start their shifts at around nine in the morning, except for his head chef Benny who likes to come in at eight to help Dean with meal preparation. He parks the impala in his usual space close to the back of the store and unlocks the back entrance, closing it behind him and flicking on the lights to the kitchen. He looks around and smiles. Metallic islands and stove tops litter the huge kitchen, with different utensils lining the sides of them, depending on the station. Against the right wall are the sinks and the large trash cans, where his busboys work. Next to it on the right are the first set of stoves and cooking stations, each one with a stovetop and the customary pots and pans pushed together and separated by a metal divider with just enough room to see each other over and converse. Next to each station is a small metal island where the finished dishes are placed. On the left wall, there’s another set of stations, and in the center of the room is a large walkway where the servers come through and pick up the finished dishes, at the end of which are the double doors leading out into the dining area.

Dean has had the restaurant open for a little under six months, and it still amazes him that this, _all of this_ , is his. He’s always been good at cooking, though it’s not like he’d had much of a choice in it. When his mother died, his father died with her, becoming an alcoholic. They’d lived in a string of cheap motel rooms while his father looked for work wherever he could. He’d be out drinking or gambling away what little money they had all the time, so it’d been up to Dean to take care of his little brother. The lack of money also meant that he’d have to be creative with whatever ingredients they had (if cans of Spaghettio’s and boxes of Lucky Charms counted as ingredients). When Bobby had finally had enough and took the boys in, Dean kept on cooking for Sam and Bobby, and the rest was history. He’d never gone to culinary school, but with the help of his Aunt and his cousin Jo, who owned The Roadhouse, the best restaurant in the small town where he grew up, he learned enough about cooking to know that he had a passion for it, and that apparently, he was damn good at it as well.

Dean shakes his head, takes a sip of coffee and heads to the office door on the left side of the kitchen, tucked into the corner where the brick walls cozy, red walls of the kitchen meet. He takes off his flannel and opens the locker he has in his office, quickly changing into his black double-breasted shirt and pants. The rest of his crew wore white uniforms, but Dean was a bit messy, and white had never been his favorite color anyway. He rolls up his sleeves and gets to work scrubbing down the islands and stoves. He’s so involved in his work that when the back door slams open behind him, he jumps.

“Jesus fucking christ, Benny!” he shouts at his head chef, “You scared the shit out of me.”

Benny laughs and closes the door behind him. “Talk about singular focus.”

Dean frowns and furrows his brow in faux anger. “You know I’m your boss right? I could fire you at any time if I wanted to,” Dean reminds him.

Benny rolls his eyes. “Trust me, brother, if you fired me, you’d be out of business in less than a week.”

Dean huffs out an involuntary laugh but fires back, “Benny, I’m deeply offended. Are you suggesting that I’m a bad chef?”

The man flashes a toothy grin at Dean and throws back cheekily, “No, I’m saying that I’m a better one.” Dean throws the towel in his hand at the cook and laughs. Together, they finish the rest of the cleaning and head out into the dining area, taking the chairs off from where they’re placed upside down on the tables.

The dining room itself is beautiful, with wood floors, and black-clothed tables. But what probably sets Dean’s restaurant apart from the others in New York is the way the shop is divided. The bottom floor includes an extensive bar on one wall, all polished wood and classy barstools, with tables littering the center of the room, and a stage on the left side of the room, where live bands perform on Fridays and the weekends. The top floor, on the other hand, is a sharp contrast. Its open air, with a waist-high wrought iron fence twisting around the perimeter of the roof, with intermittent terraces jutting up, covered in lush, green vines. From one side to the other are fairy lights, strung back and forth that only turn on at night. The tables are glass, covered in white table cloths, each topped with a glass covering and a small, rotating wooden circle in the middle, where the drinks are usually placed. There’s also a stage up here, but he usually hires local jazz bands or classic quartets to play upstairs. In a creative stroke of genius brought upon by probably one too many beers during a night on the town with Sam, Dean markets the bottom half of the restaurant as Perdition, while the top is referred to as Salvation. The whole shop was deemed ‘Chiaroscuro’, or the difference between light and dark. Dean had made the mistake of letting Sam, the geeky bastard, choose the name.

All the setting up is done at 8:30, when all of the full-time chefs begin to file in through the back door, clocking in to start the day’s work. Sous chefs get to work chopping the vegetables needed for the day, and Benny presides over them, joking with Garth and Kevin, two of his most recent hires. At 9:00, the servers on the early shift filter in, including Charlie, the hostess. She walks through the back door and calls out to the chefs, “Sup, bitches?” She catches Dean’s eye and bounds up to him.

“Heya, boss,” she grins and mock salutes.

Dean smiles, “Hey kid. How’s tricks?”

Charlie frowns a bit, saying, “Jess is sick today, so I’m working all day to make up for it.”

He elbows Charlie a little and smirks. “Sam’s going to be a little disappointed, huh?”

The redhead snorts and nods. “He’s behind on the pitch already.” Dean nods in agreement. Sam’s been pining after the blonde hostess for months but hasn’t spoken more than ten words to her in the entire time he’s been working shifts in the shop. Even more pathetic is the fact that, despite that, Sam has been picking up shifts that just ‘coincidentally’ correspond to Jess’. Dean had tried to confront him about it, but when he’d tried pressing the subject, Sam had ‘accidentally’ dropped one of the high-ball glasses on the floor and had gone off to find a broom to take care of the mess.

At 10, Dean flips the sign from ‘In Purgatory, back soon’ to ‘Back in Business’, and customers start filling in for the breakfast specials. Dean retreats back into the kitchen, letting Charlie and her serving team take care of the morning rush while he helps the chefs cope with the onslaught. For being only recently opened, Chiaroscuro has done surprisingly well. The gimmick of the upstairs/downstairs split had been a hit, though Sam swears it’s his clever name. Dean helps where he can, finishing sauces and stirring soups, chopping vegetables and plating dishes. Before he knows it, the team makes the transition to the lunch menu, and Sam comes in through the back door promptly at noon.

“Hey, bitch,” Dean calls out to his sasquatch of a brother in greeting.

Sam shoots him his trademark bitchface and shoots back, “Jerk,” before clocking in, rolling up his sleeves, and asked hopefully, “Jess coming in today?”

“I don’t know,” Dean smirks, “I thought you were the one who had her schedule memorized.”

The taller man rolls his eyes, looking up to the heavens as though they’ll give him strength to deal with his older brother. “You’re a dick, you now that?” Sam retorts.

His older grins and snipes, “Gee, at that university you’d think that you’d actually learn how to make half-way intelligent comebacks.”

Sam’s bitchface increases tenfold, and he complains, “Can’t you ever give me a straight answer?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably. But where’d be the fun in that?” Sensing his brother’s increasing irritation, he sighs and answers, “No, she’s sick and not coming in today.” Sam’s face falls enough that Dean decides it’d be cruel to tease him at this point. Instead, he claps Sam on the back, spends a moment being resentful that he actually has to reach _up_ to do that, and says, “Why don’t you get to work, huh? It’ll distract you from Goldilocks.”

Sam nods reluctantly and grabs two trays, piling them both high before expertly maneuvering them up onto the palms of his hands and knocking the door open with his hip, entering the dining room smoothly. Dean starts to help clean up the stations that are between dishes. Minutes later, Sam comes walking through the steel-finished double doors, balancing empty plates on both arms. He shoots a grin at Dean as he sets the plates down. “Dude,” he smiles, “You have _got_ to take a look at this customer. He looks like he may’ve just seen God.”

Dean lets out a chuckle and turns to wipe down the island with a wet rag. “I thought God was sighted on a flatbread in Mexico, not Mom’s chicken alfredo,” he replies.

Sam snorts and bustles past the servers headed back outside towards the dining area, steaming plates of food in hand. “Seriously though,” Sam says as he sets the dirty plates down, ‘’Take a look at him. I tell you, its comedy gold,” before walking further into the kitchen.

Against his better judgement, Dean tosses the washcloth into the farm-style, metallic sink and walks over to the double doors, taking a peek out through the polished glass and into the dining room. It’s not hard to see who Sam was referring to. In the middle of the room sits a man holding a silver-forkful of noodles in front of him, mouth agape. Dean would laugh if his mouth hadn’t suddenly just run dry.

That’s not just any customer. That’s fucking _Castiel Novak_.

Dean throws an arm out, catching Sam as he walks back over to Dean, who’s rendered speechless and is currently frantically gesturing to the dining area.

“Are you having a stroke or something?” Sam jokes and quirks a brow.

“Sam,” Dean croaks out, “That’s Castiel Novak. The food critic.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding. “Holy shit man,” he glances back out through the windows, “That’s crazy. Do you know what a good review from him could do for business?”

Of course Dean knows. How could he _not_ know? Castiel works for Heavenly Eats, one of the most renowned food-focused publishing industries in New York. Getting a good word said about his restaurant in the monthly issue would send business through the roof. Just the fact that Castiel, one of the best writers on the magazine, was here in Dean’s restaurant was a huge compliment. It meant that enough New Yorkers had recommended his shop that the company had decided he was worth investigation. A good review could change his life. A bad review, on the other hand, could send his business straight to the ground. Dean needed this to go well. No, he needed this to go _perfectly_.

“Of course I know,” Dean says, still slightly dumbfounded that Castiel is sitting in his dining room, marveling at _his food_ like he’s just undergone revelation.

Sam shoves him towards the doors. “Dude, get out there! Talk to him, woo him, do something! Pull out all that Winchester charm and make him love you,” Sam encourages.

Dean glares back at him. “What Winchester charm? The same kind you talk to Jess with? Oh wait.” Dean jibes.

Sam shoves him again, harder this time.

“Jeeze, all right, all right, I’ll ‘woo’ the food critic,” Dean swats at Sam. He takes a steadying breath and pushes through the double doors before he starts getting too nervous. Dean walks over to the table Castiel is seated at.

“Hey there,” Dean says, and immediately cringes inside. ‘Hey there’? Really? This man could literally change his life and all he can muster up is a casual, ‘hey’?

The man, however, doesn’t seem to mind. Castiel glances up at Dean, and replies, “Hello. Dean Winchester, I presume?” He extends his hand for Dean to shake, which he does. His voice is like fucking gravel, and much deeper than Dean had expected.

“The one and only. How’s everything treating you so far?” Dean gestures vaguely around the dining room.

“I really can’t say too much,” Castiel wipes his mouth on the white napkin, “But I can say I’ve not been disappointed. Rumor had it the food here was excellent, and I’ve found that in this instance it’s been correct.”

Dean flashes a winning smile, willing the slight flush he can feel high on his cheeks to go the hell away. “Thanks, Mr. Novak”

Castiel cocks his head to one side, and Dean tries hard not to find it absolutely adorable. “Are you familiar with my work?”

Dean mentally hits himself. “Uh, yeah. Kind of. I mean, you’re a big player in the culinary industry,” Dean awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, “It’d be kind of hard to not know who you are.” He fidgets nervously. He’s still a bit intimidated by the guy, and the fact that he’s drop dead fuckin gorgeous isn’t helping the matter at all. Castiel is all sexy black bed head and chiseled features, in a neat suit with a rumpled looking tax-accountant style tan trench coat hanging from the back of his chair, and piercing blue eyes that look as swirling and enchanting as the sea.

He’s so lost in them, in fact, that he doesn’t notice that Castiel has clearly said something until he clears his throat uncertainly.

Dean jerks into motion. “I’m sorry, what?” he splutters.

“I asked who came up with the theme of the restaurant,” Castiel repeats himself.

Dean relaxes a bit. He could talk about the shop for hours. “I did, though my little brother came up with the name, the nerd. I thought it would be fun to kind of incorporate an overarching theme into the place, you know? Give it a unique kind of feel,” Castiel nods and Dean continues, “Though I gotta say, I’m a little surprised that a guy coming from a place called ‘Heavenly Eats’ would sit in the Perdition section.”

Castiel gives a small smile and makes a gruff laugh. “Trust me, the irony isn’t lost on me.”

“It is a bit enticing though, seeing an angel in this kind of place,” Dean grins.

There’s a bit of a blush on Castiel’s cheeks, though when he speaks, he sounds the same. “I suppose so.”

Sensing that the conversation is over, and a bit shocked with how smoothly it seemed to go, Dean gestures back towards the double doors. “Well, nice meeting you, Cas, I hope you enjoy the rest of your lunch,” Castiel looks a little confused over the nickname, but Dean turns to leave before he fucks anything else up.

But as always, luck is not on his side, and as he turns to go, he accidentally knocks Castiel’s wine glass over, sending the white liquid cascading over the tablecloth and straight onto to the renowned food critic’s lap.

Dean stares in horror for a moment before he springs into action, apologizing and picking up a napkin, wiping up Castiel’s lap before he even realizes what he’s doing. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Novak,” he chokes out, mentally being himself up for being such a fucking klutz. When he looks up, Castiel is staring down at him, shock evident in his eyes and a flush high in his cheekbones. Dean falters in his movements for a moment once he realizes what exactly he’s been doing. Just as he feels a blush of his own beginning to form, Castiel abruptly stands up, pulls out his wallet, and drops a hundred on the table. He turns on his heel and is out the door before Dean can even get a word in.

As soon as he leaves, a busboy comes out to clear the table along with Sam.

“What the hell happened?” Sam exclaims.

Dean gets up from his place on the floor, and groans deeply out of embarrassment. “I spilled wine on the single most important person that could’ve ever eaten here,” he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, “Oh god, I’ve probably fucked up this up so badly.”

Sam looks like he’s barely containing his laughter, but he clears his throat and manages to say, “Sorry to hear that, man.”

Dean give him the signature Winchester glare and heads over to the bar. If he’s going to make it through the rest of the day after that monumental fuck-up, he’s sure as hell not going to do it sober. He orders a finger of whiskey from Meg, the bar-tend, who gives him a judgmental look for drinking so early, but he couldn’t give less of a shit.

Dean knocks back his drink, rests his head against the polished wood of the bar, and closes his eyes.

Fuck his life.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_I knew that love was here to stay/ he told me to walk this way_

 

Castiel practically runs out of the shop, heart in his throat and a blush high on his cheekbones. He quickly opens his car and drops into the seat, locking it behind him before groaning and resting his forehead on the steering wheel. What the hell had just happened?

He cringes a little as he remembers the scene. Everything had been going so smoothly: the food was amazing, the chef was gorgeous, and then he’d been soaked by a glass of wine with possibly the most handsome man he’d ever seen on his knees, head between his legs, wiping up his lap. He’d run out of the shop faster than a bat out of hell, blushing like some teenager as he went.

Cas bites his lip and bangs his head against the wheel. He decides that, no matter how amazing the food had been, he can’t ever go back to the restaurant. He’s pretty sure the embarrassment alone would kill him. Taking in a steadying breath, Castiel starts up his Prius and pulls out of the lot, heading home to his apartment to change before he goes back in to work.

He drives up through Williamsburg and crosses into lower Manhattan, all the while willing himself to forget the incident and focus on what he’d have to write about the restaurant. He navigates his way past Bryant Park, down the city streets until he reaches his apartment complex. It’s nice, red bricked on the outside with ivy twisting up the black railings and the side walls.

He makes his way up to his apartment, the loft, where he quickly switches out his black dress pants and now-rumpled white shirt with an identical pair, forgoing the tie. Castiel frowns when he realizes his trench coat is damp, but shrugs it on anyway. He makes his way out of his apartment, down the stairs and out the door within ten minutes of arriving. Cas checks his watch. It’s a quarter to three. He’ll have to hustle if he wants to make it to Heavenly Eats and finish his report before closing time.

Castiel jumps back in his car and zips past Central Park, reaching the Upper East side within half an hour. He pulls in front of the towering, glass clad building announcing its title in smart golden lettering. His brother never had been one for subtlety. Cas steps in the lobby, says a brief hello to Uriel and Anna, some of his coworkers, and takes the elevator up to his brother’s office.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he announces as he pushes open the glass door connected to the hallway.

His older brother spins around in his chair, revealing a beautiful, dark-skinned woman sitting on top of him, clad in only her undergarments. “Cassie!” he smirks, “You have terrible timing.”

Castiel frowns and turns around. “Why do you insist on defacing the office building? I do recall going apartment shopping with you early last year,” Castiel complains from where he faces the wall. He hears the squeak of his brother’s chair, a tell-tale sign that the woman has gotten up.

“The pleasure comes in doing something you’re not supposed to be doing in a place you’re definitely not supposed to be doing it in,” he hears Gabriel explain from behind him. God, he can practically hear the smug, self-satisfaction in his brother’s voice.

Cas shakes his head and turns back around. “I’m going to pretend like that made any sense,” he sighs. The woman, now dressed in a flaming red dress, rolls her eyes at the men and pulls on her sharp black heels, flipping her hair over her shoulder and walking out of the room.

“See you later, Kali dear,” Gabriel croons from his seat.

She shoots him a deadly glare as she leaves. “Don’t count on it,” she snarls.

Gabe feigns being shot through the chest before shrugging, fixing his tie and smoothing back his hair. “She always plays so hard to get,” Gabriel says, determination in his eyes, “But I’ll crack her eventually.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand how the other workers haven’t committed mutiny yet, what with you continuously mixing work and pleasure,” Castiel deadpans.

Gabriel laughs from behind his wooden desk. “And what about you, Cassie? I recall you wearing a distinctly different outfit when you came in this morning,” he throws on a shit-eating grin and waggles his eyebrows, “Something unexpected happen at the restaurant?”

Immediately, the blush from earlier is back on his cheekbones. Gabriel snorts in disbelief. “Way to go, little brother!” he laughs out, “I always knew you had it in you! Or wait, was it the other way around?” Mischief flickers in his eye.

Castiel groans and sits down, putting his face in his hands embarrassedly. “I’m not discussing my non-existent sex life with you,” he mutters, “and that’s not even what happened.”

“Do I detect a hint of disappointment, Cassie?” Gabriel inquires, feigning innocence.

Castiel shoots him the driest look he can muster, not even bothering with a response.

Gabriel deflates a little bit, waving a hand in the air in indifference. “Fine, fine, little brother,” he speaks, “I’ll humor you. What happened?”

Cas frowns a bit before saying, “The chef spilled wine on my lap. It was quite uncomfortable, so I had to go home and change.” He catches Gabriel’s expression and before he can open his mouth, Castiel shoots him a withering look, warning him, “Don’t even make that into a sex joke.”

Gabe sticks his tongue out at him. “You’re no fun at all, Cassie.”

“Despite what you believe, Gabriel, my sole purpose in life isn’t to entertain you,” Castiel informs him.

“Oh, trust me,” the older brother winks, “I get plenty of entertainment from people more willing than you.”

Castiel shoots him a look of disgust. “Can we please get back on track so I can go bleach my brain?”

Gabriel laughs once more before his expression turns serious. “Ok, ok, fine.” He turns to his computer, pulling up Castiel’s assignment and clicking on ‘Chiaroscuro’ and opening a new note box below it. “Tell me about the place. Any preliminary thoughts, notes?” he inquires.

“The chef nice,” Castiel blurts out before he can stop himself.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, humor sparkling in his eyes. “I meant about the restaurant, Cassie.”

Castiel clears his throat and shifts in his chair awkwardly. “The food was great. I ordered the fettucine,” he adds, somewhat awkwardly.

“How come you’re so eloquent on paper and so terrible at communicating verbally?” Gabriel snarks, “You’re like a walking oxymoron. “Castiel huffs, but doesn’t say anything. “Well, anyways,” Gabe continues, “What else did you get?” When Castiel shoots him a confused look, Gabriel groans. “Please don’t tell me that’s all you ordered.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Castiel hisses, “Sit there, completely soaked through with white wine, and order three more courses?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic, Cassie,” he says, “But you should’ve at least ordered a dessert to-go or something.”

Castiel deflates a bit. “I know. But that wasn’t exactly my first priority at the time.”

Gabriel waves his hand and says, “It’s alright I guess. As long as you go back tomorrow for a follow up, I’ll forgive you.”

Cas feels his eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I can’t go back there!” he exclaims.

“Why not?” Gabe asks him, something flickering in his eyes that Castiel doesn’t quite understand, but knows is bad news. He flounders for an answer. When Castiel can’t seem to formulate a good excuse, Gabriel announces, “Well, good talk there, buddy. I’ll write down here on your assignment tab that you’ll be going in tomorrow for another round, and we’ll be good to go.”

Castiel glares at his older brother from where he sits behind the desk. “I hate working with you, just as an aside,” he says half-heartedly.

Gabriel beams, “I’m a happy-go-lucky ray of fucking sunshine, Cassie. What’s not to love?”

Cas holds back a very colorful response with where his brother can shove all of his sunshine, and gets up, mentally patting himself on the back for his self-restraint. Which all but evaporates when his brother adds, “Oh, and Cassie? Try to make your report focus on the food, and not the dreamy shop owner I know you’re mooning over.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and counts slowly to ten as he leaves his brother’s office, heading over to his desk. He sits down behind the smooth, polished surface, pushing aside the images of peridot-green eyes he can’t seem to get out of his head, and begins working on his article.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_So by keeping his heart protected/he’ll never ever feel rejected/little Mr. apprehensive/said oh, he fell in love_

Dean wakes up the next morning to the shrill cry of his alarm clock and a steady pounding in the back of his skull. He groans and slams the alarm clock off, curling under the blankets for a moment and sullenly regretting all of the mistakes that led him to be stuck in his current condition. Starting with the whole food critic accident the day before. That one, by far, took the cake for biggest fuck-up of Dean Winchester’s year, which is a feat in and of itself.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of bed, sitting on the edge for a moment to give his brain a chance to wake up before he drowned in the shower or something equally stupid. Though that wouldn’t be a bad turn of events at this point, seeing as he’d probably fucked up his chances at getting a good review. Dean shook his head to clear his mind and trudged into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, stripped, and stepped under the warm stream of water, trying not to leave it running on his head for too long because pelting your head during a hangover is a terrible situation to be in (one Dean had learned from experience).

During his longer-than-usual shower, Dean’s mind wandered over a possible new winter menu for his restaurant, whether or not he should call Bobby later, when he should finally intervene in Sam’s pathetic love like, and what the exact color Castiel’s eyes were. Dean’s eyes shot open at the thought, and he immediately turned the water off, hustling out of the shower before his mind had another opportunity to betray him and think of the painfully attractive man which he’d made a fool of himself in front of. He’d always been a little bit clumsy: hitting his head on the impala’s trunk, dropping tools in Bobby’s garage, burning himself on the oven more than a couple of times, and _oh yeah_ spilling a lovely aged wine all over the lap of the one person he needed to impress more than anything. Begrudgingly, Dean accepted the fact that yesterday’s mistake was going to be on his mind all day.

“Damn it,” he sighed to himself. Nothing like a cycle of self-deprecation to really start the day of correctly.

Since it was a Tuesday, one of the least busy days of the week for Chiaroscuro, Dean had half-day. Benny would open up in the morning using his set of keys, and would oversee the kitchen until Dean came in at five. Of all the days Dean to be in a terrible, self-pitying mood, of course it would be on the one day where he had nothing to distract himself with. Dean fucking hated Tuesdays. The man sighed, steeling himself for the tough day ahead, and went into the kitchen, turning on his coffee machine before heading down the stairs to wash his baby.

Once that was done, and Dean had gone through the wax-on, wax-off process that was necessary for the general upkeep of his favorite possession, he checked his watch, huffing in frustration when he realized it was only nine o’clock in the morning. He trudged up the stairs, grabbed his fucking mom mug filled with coffee, and dropped down in front of the computer, determined to balance the shop’s monthly budget.

Dean had never been a fan of working with numbers, or of anything relating to math _at all_ , which was probably why the whole process took him a solid number of hours to complete. The mess of tax deductibles, claims, and invoices sent his head spinning more than any solid right-hook or aged whiskey ever could, which is why he usually had Ellen or Charlie help him with this stuff. But hey, the process had burned a nice chunk of time for Dean, and when he looked at the clock, he realized that it was nearly three and almost time to be getting ready for work.

While waiting for more time to pass, Dean half-heartedly cleaned his already tidy apartment. Living alone was sort of depressing, he realized as he sorted through his laundry. There was no other presence in the place but his own, no one to mock his bad habits or his lack of morning enthusiasm. No one in his place to make fun of for having a sleep-gravelly voice, or beautifully mussed bed-head, with a five o’clock shadow and piercing blue eyes and- Dean forcibly stopped that train of thought with a giant fucking roadblock, stuffed it into the largest chest he could imagine, and threw it all the way across the pacific ocean. No way was he imagining Castiel in his house with him, murmuring wake-up calls with sleep drunks eyes staring at him. Not today.

Jesus, what was he, a twelve year old girl with a crush? He was a grown fucking man, and absolutely should _not_ be thinking what it would be like to have a man he’d said fewer than ten sentences to wrapped in his arms. This wasn’t some teenage infatuation. It couldn’t be. Castiel was a food critic, and Dean was a chef. The relationship was strictly professional, and would remain that way for the foreseeable future.

Ignoring the slight twinge in his chest at the thought, Dean huffed decidedly and tugged on his shoes, grabbed his keys and slammed his apartment door behind him. He was in his car and out of the parking lot before he could rethink going in to work almost an hour early. He reached his restaurant at a quarter past four, pointedly avoiding Benny’s questioning gaze when he walked through the back door and into his office to change.

Dean walked out in his gear and straight into Sam’s back who, from the look of it, had been holding an awkward conversation with Jess, who’d walked in moments earlier to take her afternoon shift and relieve Charlie. Dean grinned at her.

“My little brother bothering you, ma’am?” Dean smirked from next to Sam.

Jess turned pink, quickly shaking her head, and said, “No! It’s fine. We were just…talking.”

Dean shot a quick look at Sam beside him, who looked like he’d like nothing more than to personally kill Dean at close range, bury the body in the shittiest cemetery he could find in the boonies, and hand engrave ‘Fuck you’ on his gravestone. Ignoring the fact that Sam was probably more than capable of doing just that, and probably more, Dean quirked an eyebrow and pointedly said to his younger brother, “Just talking, huh?”

Sam’s face went from maximum bitchface to practically murderous. “Yeah Dean,” he ground out, “You’d be familiar with it if you actually gave a crap enough to engage with anyone around you.”

Dean feigned being shot in the chest, staggering back a few steps, clutching his chest as though there were a hole in it. “You wound me, Sammy,” he gasped.

Jess looked like she was trying her hardest to not break out into laughter, and when Sam caught sight of her, his face loosened a bit, an unintentional smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean responded instinctually, reaching up to ruffle his brother’s unruly brown hair. He laughed as Sam shook him off and headed deeper into the kitchen to check on his chefs.

Satisfied with how well Benny managed to hold down the fort, Dean headed out into the dining area to take a look around and check in with Ruby, the bar-tend on duty in the late afternoons. His eyes scanned the lower dining area, subconsciously searching for the alluring pair of blue eyes that’d been on his mind all day.

“Clarence isn’t here, doofus,” Ruby called from behind the bar where she simultaneously pouring drinks and ringing someone up at the bar’s register.

Dean headed over. “You do remember that I’m your boss, right?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Oh please,” she said, “I’m the best bartender you’ve ever had and you know it.”

“You sure you want Meg to hear you say that?” Dean shot back, grinning when Ruby’s eyes narrowed.

“Deflect all you want, handsome, but we both know you were looking for him.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “How the hell do you even know about him?”

“Seriously?” Ruby looked at him like he was stupid. “He’s like the biggest name in the food industry right now. And Meg tells he everything, even if it takes some effort to work it out of her,” she added with a week.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Gross,” he shuddered, “I’m going to go check upstairs. Don’t improvise an uprising while I’m gone.”

Ruby looked offended. “Improvise? I’ve been planning you downfall since day one.”

Dean snorted and pushed off of the bar, heading upstairs to make sure everything was running smoothly. Despite what he said, he knew Ruby was right, he was a little disappointed that he hadn’t seen Cas, though he knew that reasonably, there was no reason for the critic to come back. Sending a quick mental ‘fuck you’ to Ruby, he continued up the stairs and into the open-aired Salvation section of the restaurant.

Immediately, his eyes locked onto the man sitting by the wrought-iron railing covered with trailing ivy. It was Castiel, wearing the same rumpled trench coat and looking just as delectable as he did yesterday. Dean freezes at first when Castiel catches his gaze, but then forces himself to smile and make his way over the handsome man.

“Hey again, Cas,” Dean throws out. He’s already dug his grave, so at this point he figures he can at least have some fun.

Dean didn’t know how he was expecting Castiel to react, but giving him a small smile certainly wasn’t it. “Hello, Dean.”

“Back for more, I see,” the chef speaks, looking down at Castiel’s empty table.

Cas nods. “I just arrived. Gabriel sent me back, since my research last time was…interrupted.”

Dean grimaces and apologizes, “Yeah, sorry about that man. I try not to make a habit of pouring wine onto my customers.”

“Yes, I see why that could be bad business,” Castiel responds, a glimmer of teasing in his eyes.

Dean chuckles. “I see you’ve chosen Salvation this time,” he points out, “Feeling I need of a little cleansing after your stay in Perdition yesterday?”

Castiel chuffs at the double-entendre but nods and agrees, “It would appear so.”

Shooting him a winning grin, Dean asks, “So what’re you here for today?”

“My brother sent me to sample some desserts, since I missed out on them yesterday,” Cas responds.

Dean quickly snatches up Castiel’s menu. At his surprised look, Dean clarifies, “I’ll take care of you; make you something special since I drowned you in your drink yesterday.”

Castiel smiles, and Dean swears his heart stops for a second at the sight. Damn, if he thought Castiel was attractive before, he seemed almost perfect now. Dean clears his throat. “Ok, I’ll send your dessert out in a bit. Nice to see you again, Cas,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

Dean hustles his way back into the kitchen and starts working on Castiel’s off-the-menu dessert as soon as he enters. He pulls out coffee beans, chocolate, and the other ingredients he knows he’ll need to make Castiel an amazing dessert. He’s in the middle of whisking the eggs and chocolate mixture in a bowl when he hears Sam come up behind him.

“Dude, whatever the hell you’re making, it smells awesome,” Sam says. “What is it?”

“A chocolate-expresso torte. I’m thinking of drizzling it with a raspberry sauce when it’s done,” Dean tells him, pouring the mixture into a cheesecake pan.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Woah, is that even on the menu?” he asks.

Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s for Cas.”

“Cas, huh?” Sam smirks from behind Dean as he bends over to quickly bake the torte. “When did you two get close enough to use nicknames?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Please, we’re closer than you and Jess are, and we’ve known each other for like a sixteenth of the time,” he says.

Sam frowns, “Whatever, man. It’s obvious that you like him.”

“I’m sure it’s just as painfully obvious to everyone here that you’re harboring a serious crush on Jess as well, my man,” Dean pats him on the shoulder, “Take that out when it beeps, ok?” He walks away to start on the raspberry sauce before Sam can reply.

Twenty minutes later, the sauce is ready, the torte has been blast-chilled, and is plated on an elegant white plate. The reddish pink of the glaze contrasts smartly with the stark white, and the mint leaf Dean added on the side at the last minute was the perfect finishing touch.

Dean has someone else take it up to Castiel, since the dinner rush has since come barreling through the doors, and when the server comes back and tells Dean that Castiel had practically cried in joy when he’d taken the first bit, Dean pretends like the sudden feeling of warmth that courses through him is just from the heat of the open over he’s standing by.

And if later that night Dean dreams of eyes as blue of the sea and faces he can’t get out of his head, then that’s his own damn business.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_You make my heart shake/bend and break/but I can’t turn away and it’s driving me wild_

 

Castiel wakes up the next morning feeling as though he’d just had an amazing dream, but was unable to remember any of it. Except, of course, the hand that trailed down his spine at the end. That part was perfectly clear. Cas pulls himself up out of his warm nest of blankets and picks his laptop off of the nightstand, headed into the kitchen to start his review on Chiaroscuro. As he waits for his pot of water to boil, he thinks of the chef and starts absently writing the report, not really noticing the words he’s typing or if it all even makes sense.

It’s by far the easiest report Castiel has even written, and if he hadn’t reached his word limit early on in the review, he would’ve written far more. Not bothering to read over it, Cas does a quick spell check, fixes any mistypes, and send the rough draft over to his brother by email.

While he waits for a reply, he pours the now scorching hot water into his cup, infusing it with the Earl Grey teabag he put in. Castiel hops up onto his kitchen counter and sips at his tea, staring off into the distance and finds himself absently thinking about the chef from the last two nights.

Dean. What a name. Castiel takes a moment to imagine what the syllable would feel like rolling off of his tongue, rough with sleep, or maybe even as a cry, in the heat of the moment while-

His phone rings, shouting out through its speakers, _Heat of the momentttt, heattttt of the moment_

Castiel sighs irritably and accepts the call, immediately knowing by the ringtone that it’s his older brother. He programmed the song into his phone and Castiel hasn’t figured out how to change it. “What is it?” Castiel grumbles.

“What the hell is this?” Gabriel demands around choked off laughs, “What on earth did you just send me?”

Frowning, Castiel tilts his head to the side even though he knows Gabriel can’t see him, and asks, “What’re you talking about?”

“The report!” Gabriel exclaims, out of breath, “It sounds like the script to some third-rate porno book!”

Instinctively defensive, Castiel says sharply, “No, it doesn’t. It’s very well written.”

He hears Gabriel let out a snort of laughter. “I never said that it was poorly written, Cassie, just that it sounds like you were channeling your inner teenage girl while you were writing it,” he can practically hear Gabriel’s knowing smirk through the phone while he continues, “Did you even proofread it?”

Castiel sighs indignantly. “Of course I did.” Despite his reply, he opens up his email to Gabriel, searching through his sent box to find the review he’d just sent in.

“I’m not talking about a cursor spell-check, Cassie, I’m talking a full-on reread,” Gabriel clarifies.

Cas is silent for a moment. “…no.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Gabriel mutters. “How about I read some of your best lines back at you?” Before Castiel can protest, Gabriel pushes on, “It says here, and I quote, ‘The chef’s eyes resemble clear peridot, and his smile could shine brighter than the sun’.”

Castiel cringes. Did he really write that down? Did he really just _send that to Gabriel?_ Apparently he asked that last part out loud, because Gabriel responds, “Hell yeah you did Cassie, and so much more. We haven’t even worked our way to the part where you give a very in-depth description of his ass as he walks away.”

Cas blushes from where he’s seated at the kitchen table. He’s currently rereading his email, and God, it totally sounds like he’s written a script to a rom com. And not a good one. “Ok, I get it, Gabe,” he snaps through the phone.

“Woah, woah, someone sounds touchy this morning,” Gabriel snipes right back.

“I’ll rewrite it, Gabriel, just please stop talking,” he sighs.

From the other end of the phone, he hears Gabriel’s chair creak as he leans back in it. “Sure thing, Cassie. But I suggest you go back to the restaurant so that you get more information on the food instead of the hunky head chef.” There’s something in his tone that Castiel can’t really place before he hangs up , not allowing Castiel to spend more than half a second regretting the fact that he wasn’t an only child. It seriously would’ve been _so_ much easier.

Castiel hangs up the phone, dropping it wearily onto the table before maneuvering his mouse over to the email, highlighting the whole thing and preparing to delete the whole think. As his finger hovers over the backspace button, he hesitates, though he can’t really say why. Realizing he’ll probably regret it later, he opens up a blank word document and copies the email, pasting it into the empty doc and saving it before he has a chance to regret the decision. Hastily, he renames the file as ‘Prelim. November edition’ and exits the word document, saving it in his work files as far down as he can put it. He knows he’ll forget about it, stumble into it later, and relive the terrible embarrassment that is his life, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment.

For a while, he muses over his brother’s suggestion that he go back to the restaurant. Castiel has an excellent memory, and admittedly it’d be pretty impossible for him _not_ to remember the amazing food that he’d had. In fact, he’s pretty sure that right now, if he focused hard enough, he could remember the taste of each dish he’d eaten there and what exactly each was made out of. Gabriel knows all of this, of course, which is why Castiel can’t really figure out why Gabe keeps suggesting to go back. Quite possibly, and most likely, he finds it entertaining to hear about Castiel’s embarrassment and failure. That’s probably it.

Cas thinks about it a while longer, almost managing to talk himself out of going back before he realized he’d have to be insane for giving up another opportunity to go back to the restaurant sample more of its food, for free, since he’d long since memorized Gabriel’s credit card number (in case of emergencies, he tells himself). And if he can see the incredibly handsome chef again as a result, well then that’s just one of the perks of the job.

…..

Castiel finds himself sitting in Perdition in a sleek dark blue button down, cuffs rolled up at the sleeves, and wearing the black pair of jeans he knows for a fact make his ass look fantastic. He tries to tell himself that he’s not doing this to impress Dean, but is failing on all accounts. He looks around, really taking in the dining area in Perdition because he wasn’t really able to focus the last time he came in. The tables are deep wood, covered in black tablecloths with a small vase of roses in each one. The bar itself is finely polished wood, carefully engraved into swirling arabesques with a deep-set inlay behind the bar, showcasing the astonishing amounts of liquor the restaurant had to show off. Apparently, Dean was a drinker.

Speaking of the bar, the brunette currently polishing a high-ball glass behind it is staring at him with an odd intensity. He watches as she gestures to pretty blonde hostess and whispers something in her ear, maintaining eye contact with Castiel the whole time. He feels slightly unnerved by the woman, like she’s telling a joke and he happens to be the punchline. He looks on as the blonde tips her head back in a laugh and disappears into the kitchen. Minutes later, Dean emerges, looking around for a moment as though he was searching for something. Or someone, Castiel adds when Dean met his eyes and flashes him a megawatt smile.

Castiel watches as the blonde walks over with what could only be described as a swagger, despite his bow legs. “Can’t get enough of the place, huh angel?” Dean grins.

Castiel feels a surge of affection rush through him, and had to bite his tongue before he says something stupid, like ‘I find you painfully attractive’ or ‘Please come home with me’ or ‘I’m desperately single and very gay’. Instead, he manages, “It would appear not.”

Dean winks in response and replies, “I know. I’m irresistible.” Castiel barely manages to contain his agreement when the chef speaks again, “So, I see you’re in Perdition today. How far you’ve fallen.”

Cas smirks a little at the jibe and throws back, “Well, seeing as how I didn’t really have time to fully take in everything last time, I figured I’d give it another go.” It’s worth bringing up the wine-incident when it draws another smile out of Dean, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit as he laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, laugh at my clumsiness,” Dean rolls his eyes, “Anyways, what can I get for you today?”

Castiel quickly glances at his watch. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay long. I have to meet my brother at the office tonight to revise this month’s magazine editorial.”

Dean nods sympathetically. “Sucks,” he says, “I can get you something to go?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’d rather remain to eat, if that’s no bother. I rather like the ambiance.”

“I imagine it’s a lot better when wine’s not soaking its way through your slacks,” Dean quips cheekily.

Cas finds himself smiling, and before he knows it, he’s laughing. Dean’s eyes widen a little before his grin gets a bit wider. Castiel clears his throat and speaks, “I’ll just have another dessert, if you would.”

Dean swipes up his menu in a flash. “No problem, though at the rate you’re going, you’ll have diabetes within the month.”

“Do you insult all of your patrons?” Castiel asks innocently.

Dean winks again. “Only after I’ve dumped a bottle of wine on them,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away with the menu, heading back towards the kitchen. Castiel shakes himself when he realizes he’s been watching the man’s backside as he walks away, becoming more and more painfully aware of just how much he enjoys Dean’s company. And face. Definitely that too.

About twenty minutes later, a tall young man with hair longer than should be allowed comes out from behind the kitchen doors carrying a triangular white plate. He makes his way over to Castiel and places the dish in front of him. “White chocolate key lime cheesecake, freshly made,” he informs Castiel. His eyes widen. “Is that even on the menu?” he asks the young server. He’d managed to look through the menu a bit before Dean had come out, and he most certainly did not see such an option listed under the dessert menu.

The man winks at him. “No sir, but don’t tell my older brother that, or he’ll skin me,” the server says conspiratorially before lumbering back into the kitchen.

Castiel wonders about the implications of what it means for Dean to be making special dishes for him before dismissing it. The man did, after all, spill wine on him, and is probably trying to ‘wow’ him in the hopes that he’ll forget about it and write him a stellar review. And it’s working, Castiel thinks as he takes a bite of the cheesecake. He barely contains a moan. It’s amazing. There’s just enough lime in there to balance out the sweet white chocolate, managing to be both decadent and strangely refreshing at the same time. Dean can cook remarkably well for someone his age. From what he’s seen, Dean only looks to be about a year or so younger than Castiel, at twenty four, and for him to be portraying such skill at such a young is very impressive.

Castiel leaves Chiaroscuro feeling sated, and even manages to get through the meeting with Gabriel with little to no sass, which earns him an almost worried stare. He goes home feeling lighter than air for some reason, and goes to bed thinking about handsome chefs who have sparkling green eyes and wicked senses of humor.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Money, so they say/is the root of all evil today_

 

Dean physically can’t stop thinking about Castiel. It’s like he’s been burned into his brain; his stupid beautiful face imprinted into his retinas; his goddamn gravelly voice clear as day ringing in his ears, taunting him with what he knows he can’t have. He thinks about him consistently throughout the next couple of days, disappointed when he doesn’t see Castiel in the restaurant but also more than a little relieved. Maybe the distance is what Dean needs to remind himself that crushing on the one man who holds the future of your shop in their hands is completely and utterly fucking stupid. Not to mention pointless. Cas is so damn unattainable for someone like Dean, and is completely out of his league. For god’s sake, Castiel is one of the most renowned food critics in New York and Dean is a college drop-out who just happened to strike gold in the form of a booming business. His success is mostly due to luck, he knows that. Luck that he happened to be discovered by so many people, luck that Benny came in one day looking for a job, and luck that Castiel walked through his doors to review the restaurant.

He’s so distracted by his thoughts that he almost doesn’t see the pedestrian walking in front of him, crossing the street. The man, tall and sharply dressed in a navy blue suit shoots him a nasty glare when Dean has to slam on the breaks, skidding to a halt mere inches in front of the blonde man. Dean huffs out a breath he didn’t realize and runs a hand through his hair. He’s a mess. Dean barely makes is to work in time to open the shop, hustling out of his car. It’s when he’s halfway across the parking lot that he realizes there’s another car parked in the lot with him.

It’s a sleek black jaguar, recently waxed by the looks of it. Dean’s always been more of a fan of the classics, but he can appreciate a damn beautiful car when he sees one. He lets out a low whistle and resists the urge to inspect the car close-up. Instead, he walks around to the front of his restaurant, looking for the owner. He’s not disappointed. Standing in front of the shop and looking utterly bored as he glances at his watch is a man dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit, a red tie sitting snugly around his neck. When he looks up, it’s clear he’s a lawyer. He has a hungry look in his sunken eyes and there’s a slightly unkempt look about his beard. When he catches sight of Dean, his eyes narrow and his lips turn up into what looks like a sneer.

Dean instantly hates the guy. “Did you need something?” he asks curtly.

The man’s smile gets wider, revealing slightly yellowed teeth behind his blood-red lips. “Yes, actually,” he replies. The man stalks closer to Dean, who barely resists the urge to take a step back. The man continues, “My name is Alastair, and I represent Mr. Crowley, the owner of the building.”

Dean nods. “So what do you want from me?” he manages.

Alastair looks him up and down, and Dean feels unpleasantly exposed. “You’re Dean Winchester, the restaurant’s manager, I presume?” When Dean nods silently, Alastair asks, “And you don’t actually own the building?”

Swallowing hard, and not at all liking the direction the conversation is taking, he nods again, clarifying, “Not yet, though I’m hoping to save up enough money to buy the building within the next six months. Technically, I’m leasing right now.” Between helping Sam paying for college and the rent for his apartment, Dean wasn’t exactly reeling in the dough at the moment.

Alastair nods and grins predatorily. “Excellent,” he said quietly as he scribbles something down on the notepad he’s produced from somewhere on his person. “And have you been leasing for more than a year?”

Dean shakes his head. “Six months.”

The man writes down something else on the paper and clicks his pen shut. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, that’s all I needed to know.” Alastair brushes past Dean and is gone around the corner before Dean can even ask what the hell that was all about. Moments later, he hears the purr of a luxury car and the black jaguar speeds past him down the road and out of sight.

There’s a bad feeling prickling at the back of Dean’s neck, and he knows something isn’t right. Quickly, he takes out his phone and speed-dials Sam. After a couple of rings, the call connects, and Sam answers, voice gruff with sleep, “Dean? What is it?”

“Hey Sammy, sorry to wake you, but I gotta ask. Do you remember anything about the building’s owner from when we talked to our agent?” he asks. Dean hears Sam shuffle around a bit, presumably sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.

“Not really,” his little brother yawns, “I mean, I know his name, but I don’t have any of his contact information. Your agent handled most of the details of the lease agreement.”

Dean curses under his breath and rubs the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. “Look, Sam, I don’t wanna bother you before your classes or anything, but could you maybe find out Crowley’s number from Azazel?” Dean had never liked their lawyer Azazel. He always seemed kind of shady, and it’d rubbed Dean the wrong way. He’s probably a leader of a prostitution ring or drug cartel or something.

He hears Sam sigh on the other end of the phone. “Please?” Dean adds.

After a moment, Sam answers, “Sure, man. But you owe me.”

Dean sighs in relief. “Thanks, Sammy. I’ll up your pay this week.”

“Yeah, ok,” Sam yawns again, “Now I’m going back to sleep. Unlike you, I don’t have to be awake until ten.”

“Bye bitch,” Dean says affectionately.

“Later, jerk.”

Hanging up the phone, Dean heads around the back of the restaurant and unlocks the back door. Throughout all the meal preparation and setting up the dining area for the day, Dean can’t seem to shake the feeling that something bad is headed his way, looming around the corner and just out of sight. He can’t ignore the feeling even when Benny and Charlie arrive and tease him about Castiel. Sometime later in the afternoon, Sam comes in through the back entrance and heads over to Dean.

“So get this,” he starts, and Dean rolls his eyes at the catchphrase, “Azazel doesn’t actually have Crowley’s number, but I did some digging and found the company he works for. They’ll call me back in about an hour when they verify that we’re clients of his and will send over his phone number.”

“Thanks,” Dean says again as he claps San on the back. He furrows his brow. “What kind of shitty lawyer loses something as important as the number of an important business partner?”

Sam shakes his head. “The cheap kind, I guess.” Sam tries to subtly look over Dean’s shoulders and out through the window to the dining room. Dean rolls his eyes again.

“Yes, Sam, Jess is here,” he says.

Sam throws him his patented bitchface and snaps, “Shut up Dean.” He takes another look through the window and smirks knowingly. “Tall, dark, and handsome is out there too, you know,” he tells Dean, who whirls around to look through the window so quickly he almost crashes into Benny at his work station. Sam snorts out a laugh behind him while Dean quickly apologizes.

“Go out and talk to him, man,” Sam urges from behind him, “It’s clear that you like him.”

Dean shoots a glare over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah? And when did you become the relationship guru?”

Sam frowns and wrinkles his nose. “Come on man, you’re acting like a wimp,” he points out.

“This is seriously coming from the guy who can’t say more than ten words to Jess at a time without breaking into a blush?” Dean reminds him. Before he realizes it, he’s out the doors, back aching from where Sam had aggressively pushed him. Thankfully, Cas is seated over at the bar, back to Dean as he approaches. Dean slides onto the barstool next to him and greets, “Never took you for much of a drinker.” He looks pointedly at Castiel’s beer.

Cas looks up, surprised for a moment before smiling warmly at Dean. “I’m more of a wine person, actually, but it’s a Saturday night and I don’t have to work tomorrow,” he says by way of explanation.

Dean nods in understanding and motions for Ruby to give him his regular order. She looks pointedly between the two of them while she pours Dean a finger of whiskey. He sends her the most warning glare he can muster. Ruby shakes her head and lets out a little ‘puff’ of air before sliding Dean’s glass down along the bar. “So what brings you here today, Cas?” he asks, turning to face the man beside him.

Castiel takes a long drink before he replies, and Dean finds himself unable to look away from the bob of his throat as he swallows. Wiping a hand across his mouth, Cas answers, “I heard there was live entertainment on the weekends.”

Dean tears his eyes away from Castiel and casts a glance back to where the band is getting ready to perform. “Indeed there is,” he says, “Hope you like classic rock.”

“I like almost all genres of music,” Cas replies easily.

Nodding his head, Dean hears himself asking, “Ok, but real test. Bon Jovi. Thoughts?”

Castiel seems to consider this, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully for a moment, before answering, “I think he can make a good rock song on occasion.”

Dean nods and smiles brightly. “Good answer.” He spares a glance at his watch and notices the time. Benny had to leave early today, so Dean is the head chef tonight, so he can’t be away from the kitchen for too long or the orders will back up. Technically, he shouldn’t have even left the kitchen, but when he’d heard that Castiel was here again, all rational thought had abruptly left his mind. Reluctantly, he throws back his whiskey and tells Cas, “Sorry to cut this short, but I’m on duty tonight, and I really can’t be away from the kitchen for too long.”

Something akin to disappointment flashes across Castiel’s features for a moment before he corrects is, dipping his head in understanding. He nods towards Castiel and calls over to Ruby, “Put his drinks on my tab.” Ruby shoots him a critical glance, but sarcastically salutes and heads over to the register.

Castiel tries to protest, but Dean waves him off. “Seriously dude, I own the place, don’t worry about it.” Cas looks hesitant, but says his thanks regardless. “Don’t mention it,” he speaks as he gets up from his seat at the bar, “Enjoy the show, Cas.”

“I’m sure I will,” Castiel rumbles in response, “Goodbye, Dean.”

He’s barely through the kitchen doors before Sam comes up in front of him. “So, did you ask him out yet?” he pokes.

“I don’t know, Sam, how long did you know Jess before you asked her out? Oh, wait,” he fires back instinctually.

Sam shakes his head. “You’re awful,” he sighs. A moment passes before he perks up, seeming to remember something. “Oh! The company called me back with Crowley’s number,” he says as he hands a small piece of notepad paper with a number scrawled onto it in Sam’s chicken scratch.

Dean nods. “Great, I’ll give them a call right now.” Sam nods his assent and Dean walks though the kitchen to his office, where he shuts the door behind him and sinks into his swivel chair behind the desk. He takes his phone from his pocket and dials the number, waiting impatiently as the number connects.

A surly voice in a heavy English accent says at him through the speaker, _This is Crowley, contract holder and manager. And this is the sound of me either being away or ignoring your call._

The voicemail beeps at him to leave his message, and Dean brushes of the indignation brought on by Crowley’s rude, but admittedly creative, voicemail. He inquires about the representative in front of his business that morning, and rattles off his name and contact information, saying that the sooner he could get back to him, the better. He hangs up, and the sense of dread that he’d managed to forget about during his brief conversation with Castiel comes barreling back into him at full force.

Something was wrong. A storm was coming, and Dean had landed himself smack in the middle of it.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Oh, my world is turning inside out/ Say, I’m crying, breaking up inside/ See, my heart is sinking to my knees_

 

Two weeks later, Dean surprises himself by waking up at the ass crack of dawn _happy_ , for god’s sake. He’s never considered himself much of a morning person, but maybe that was due to the fact that there’d nothing to consistently look forward to in his life each morning. As ashamed as he is to admit it, Castiel makes him happy. He’s been coming in to Chiaroscuro often in the last couple of weeks, whenever his schedule allows. Dean always makes a point to go out and talk to him, and he’s found that he’s unusually comfortable around Cas. It just seems like they fit. Castiel understands the way his mind works, not to mention the fact that he’s smart as a whip and his smiles, no matter how rare, manage to light up the room. And ok, yeah, so maybe Dean’s become inexplicably smitten with the man. As long as he doesn’t act on his feelings, no matter how strong they may be, everything should be fine.

Dean’s pretty sure that every single person on his staff knows about his infatuation with the blue-eyed food critic, whether not they were told by Ruby or Sam, or they noticed how Dean would personally make Castiel items off the menu. Sam continues to make fun of him while simultaneously urging him to ask Cas on a date because _He likes you Dean, go for it!_ All of which Dean brushes off. If he focused on it for too long, he’d lose what little sanity he had remaining.

On the way to Chiaroscuro that Friday night, Dean wonders about the voicemail he left the building owner. At this point, he’s become more than a little concerned, and the nagging feeling in his chest that everything was inexplicably going to go horrible wrong had in increased tenfold. It’s been a little over two weeks since Dean left the voicemail, and there’s been no word from either Alastair the shady lawyer or Crowley himself. He pulls into the parking lot and prepares for the day ahead. He works to distract himself from his emotions, the healthiest of coping methods, and is surprised when Sam comes in for his afternoon shift. Funny how time flies when you’re avoiding everything.

“Heya, Sammy,” he calls to his brother from where he’s wiping down the cool metal counter.

“Hey Dean,” Sam smiles, “Going for it today?”

Dean resists the urge to throw the washcloth at his little brother’s face (but just barely) and says sweetly, “I don’t know Sam, are you finally going to ask Jess out today?”

Sam puffs out his chest. “I already did,” he says proudly, “Last night after you left. She said yes.”

Dean’s pretty sure his jaw hits the floor. “Seriously?! Dude, way to go,” he laughs, “I’m just glad you’ll finally stop walking around back here looking like you’re pining.”

“Oh, you mean like you are over Cas?” Sam snorts.

This time, Dean doesn’t bother to restrain himself, and the washcloth hits Sam dead in the center of his face with a satisfying smack of water on skin. Sam yelps and tugs the cloth off his nose, complaining, “Gross, man, that stinks!”

“Almost as badly as you do,” Dean says sweetly.

A thundercloud passes over Sam’s expressions. “You know if I wanted to I could totally kill you and get away with it.”

Dean nods enthusiastically. “Yup, not a doubt in my mind,” he agrees, “But then who’d pay your tuition fees?”

“Hacking into a school database isn’t nearly as hard as it seems, Dean,” Sam smiles grimly.

Dean huffs and leans up to slap Sam across the back of his head. “No way man, I do _not_ have enough money to bail you out of prison when you get arrested for credit card fraud,” he says jokingly.

“Fraud’s easy to commit, if you know how to cover your tracks,” Charlie points out, coming up from behind Dean, adding, “It’s practically child’s play.”

Dean looks down at her incredulously. “Do I want to know what kind of life you led before I met you?”

“Probably not,” Charlie laughs, “But let’s just say I’ve had to disappear before.” At the look Dean sends her, she rolls her eyes and deadpans, “Do you really think Charlene Bradbury is my real name?” She hesitantly adds when the boys continue to stare at her in silence, “…kidding.” Both boys chuckle unsurely, not entirely convinced. “But seriously man, when’re you going to ask him out?” she punches Dean lightly on the shoulder.

Dean groans. “Not you too.”

“Come on, Dean,” Charlie complains, “It’s almost painful to watch you mooning over him and him mooning over you but neither of you doing anything to make it better.”

“This is getting uncomfortably close to a rom-com for my liking,” Dean holds up his hands and takes a step back.

Sam sighs. “Just don’t wait too long, ok man? He’s not going to wait forever.”

Dean throws him a half-hearted middle finger and backs away into the depths of the kitchen to mope. He finds himself thinking, surprise surprise, about Castiel, and if maybe what literally everyone in the kitchen staff is telling him might actually be true. They certainly have gotten closer lately, enough to know that Castiel’s trench coat is his most prized possession, he enjoys running probably more than is healthy living in a city like New York, and can’t hold his liquor for shit. He also knows that, despite how he first comes off, Cas isn’t nearly as stone-faced as he appears to be, and that while each change in expression is subtle, it’s definitely there once you know how to read it. Dean also knows that Cas is a sucker for anything chocolate, has an annoying ringtone for his brother that he can’t figure out how to change, and has an adorable visual tick of tilting his head to the side _just so_ when he doesn’t understand something, or- Yeah, ok. Maybe they’re a little past the casual acquaintance stage in their relationship.

Additionally, he’s never seen Castiel flirt with any female member of the crew. Actually, he’s never seen him flirt with anyone, despite the fact that both Meg and Ruby have repeatedly come on to him. He remembers Ruby telling him that anyone who manages to turn down both of them and not bat an eye _have_ to be gay. Dean doesn’t want to think about the implications of his sexual orientation, especially in regards to their relationship. If he started down that road of wondering what it’d be like to kiss Castiel, touch him whenever he wanted to, wake up next to him- and _goddamnit_ not he’s thinking about everything he can never have.

Except. _Maybe he could_ , whispers a tiny, traitorous voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Sammy. Maybe he could have Castiel if he just manned up and shoved his pride aside. Maybe he could learn more about the mysterious, drop-dead-gorgeous food critic if he grew a pair and followed his little brother’s advice. And no, the irony of the whole situation isn’t lost on him. He actively resents the fact that in fewer than two weeks’ time, it’s gone from him urging Sam to make a move to Sam boasting about his new, potential relationship and encouraging _Dean_ to make a move.

Biting his lip, Dean considers his options as he chops up multicolored bell peppers into fine strips, soon to be added to chicken and turned into fajitas. He could stay uncertain for the rest of his life, and ok, maybe that was a little over-dramatic, or he could make a move and find out _what if_. Setting his knife down decidedly, firmly tells himself that if Castiel comes in tonight, he’ll make a move.

With that goal in mind, Dean hands over the finished bell peppers to Benny to season and finish the dish, wipes his hands on the front of his jeans, and heads over to the metal double doors to look for a certain head of disheveled black hair. Which of course, is when his phone rings.

Frowning, Dean takes out his phone and stares at the caller ID for a moment before realizing who it is and accepting the phone quickly.

“Dean Winchester?” a deep British voice asks.

“Crowley?” Dean says smartly in response.

“The one and only. I hear there’s been some confusing regarding the fate of the building?” the man speaks through the phone.

Dean feels a spark of concern. “The fate of the building?”

He hears Crowley hum in consideration in the background for a moment before he continues, “I see Alastair didn’t tell you. I can never seem to find good help these days; a good manservant is so hard to come by in modern times.”

“Crowley. The building. What’s happening,” Dean cuts him off with a growl.

“Down boy,” Crowley hisses condescendingly, “I’m planning on selling the building by the end of next month.”

Dean sways on his feet, gripping the nearest flat surface to steady himself on. Which also happens to be a burning hot stove, fuck his life. He pulls his hand away, silently cursing, and barks into the receiver, “You’re _what?!_ ”

Crowley hums again. “Indeed. I’m looking for the money to fund a new little business prospect I have in mind, and I’ll be damned if I stoop so low as to use my own money.”

“This is my _restaurant_ you’re talking about! I’m paying you for the lease!” Dean feels on the verge of shouting.

“And soon you won’t have to pay me at all, lucky you,” Crowley intones, “You’ll need to be out by the end of next month. Cheers.”

Before he can hang up, Dean yells, “Wait! You can’t do this, please, I’ll do anything.”

Crowley is quiet for a long moment, and Dean worries that he was too late to stop the man from ending the call. However, the next moment, Crowley speaks. “Seeing as you’re so…passionate about that quaint eatery of yours, I’ll make you a deal.”

“I’m listening,” Dean urges, gripping his phone in a white-knuckled embrace.

“If you can pay me the amount I’m asking for the building before the end of next month, the whole building and complex is yours.”

Dean feels a flash of relief as he asks, “Great. How much are we talking here?”

“1 and a half million,” Crowley replies.

Dean can practically feel his eyes bug out of his sockets. Sure he’s making bank from the restaurant, but even if he funneled all of his resources into paying for the building and cutting back on expenditures and used all of his personal savings, he’d still be about one and a half hundred grand short. But…he can’t lose the shop: it’s his dream, his _baby_ , second only to his impala, and that’s saying something. He’s poured his fucking heart and soul into this place, and he’ll be damned if he sees it sold off to some scum-bag who’ll probably turn it into a mini mall. He’s not going down without a fight. “Fine,” he grits out, “You’ll have your money by the end of the month.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley says, voice dripping in sarcasm. “I expect payment by December thirty-first. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Dean hangs up the phone more enraged and confused than he’d ever thought previously possible. He also feels dirty and empty, like he’d just managed to sell his soul. Despite the slight tremor running through his hands, Dean pushes his way through the swinging double doors, keeping the precarious situation to himself so as not to worry any of the workers, and resumes his hunt for Castiel. Even though he feels like he’s just walked into hell, a rush of affection courses through him when he remembers his plan for the man. When Dean doesn’t see the familiar mop of hair in Perdition, he wanders upstairs to Salvation, keeping his eyes peeled for Castiel along the way. Dean grins subconsciously when he finds Castiel sitting in the center of Salvation’s dining area.

With another man.

Dean feels his heart drop from his chest as he takes in the scene. Castiel is sitting close next to the man, the same man, Dean notes, that he literally almost _ran over_ two weeks ago, suddenly wishing maybe he had. There’s a bottle of red wine sitting on the table, which Dean knows the other man ordered (Castiel prefers white), and Castiel is smiling brightly at whatever the man is saying. The lights are twinkling above their heads, they’re sipping red wine, and the quartet in the background is playing love ballads reinvented as jazz songs. When Castiel tips his head back into a full body laugh, Dean knows what this is.

It’s a date.

God, he’d been so fucking _stupid_ , so naïve to think that Castiel would ever spare him more than a second glance or think of him as anything more than a friend. And suddenly, Castiel’s constant presence at Chiaroscuro makes sense. It was recon, data gathering, while he decided whether or not it’d be a good place to take his boyfriend.

_Boyfriend_. The word tastes sour on his tongue.

He hates the man. Hates him for taking Castiel, for managing to steal him away. Hates him because he’s everything Dean’s not: sharply dressed, well put together, presumably well educated. Hates him because he’s fucking _perfect_ for Castiel. They’re practically a match made in heaven.

And Dean even though is watching them from where he’s standing on the edge of Salvation’s dining room, he feels as though he’s plummeted through the ground and landed himself in the middle of Perdition.

Castiel notices Dean, turns his head to the side in greeting, assuming that, like always, Dean is going to walk over and engage in friendly conversation. But he’s not. He _can’t_ , not when it literally feels like he’s had his heart ripped out of his chest. He tears his eyes away from Castiel’s and tries to swallow down the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. Dean turns on his heel and runs down the stairs as fast has he can, speeding through the kitchen and out the back door despite Sam’s worried calls.

He remembers when Castiel had done the same thing weeks ago. Maybe this was how he felt: embarrassed and more than a little confused; desperate to get away. He opens the impala door and rests his head on the steering wheel for a moment. God, he’d been such a fool, getting his hopes up like that. Of course he had a perfect boyfriend, of course Cas had-

_Castiel_ , Dean corrects himself.

Sighing deeply, Dean resigns himself to an alcohol filled evening; anything to stop the dull ache in his chest. He peels out of the lot and doesn’t look back.

Castiel can order off of the menu tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Two: If it Keeps on Raining Levee's Going to Break**

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Someone call the doctor, hold me and tell me/love is a sickness, addiction, overdose_

It’s about twelve in the morning when Castiel gets a call from Balthazar. He’s immediately wary. As much as he loves his childhood friend, they’ve been known to get into their fair share of trouble together, Balthazar on purpose and Castiel more of the unsuspecting victim of said trouble, and Balthazar calling can only mean one thing.

“What do you want?” Castiel says crankily as he accepts the call.

From the other end he hears Balthazar’s laughter. “You never were much of a morning person, were you Castiel?” he jokes.

“I’m not particularly fond of getting up at the brink of dawn, if that’s what you mean,” he grumbles in reply.

“Oh, Cassie,” Balthazar condescends, “You’re so… _melodramatic._ ”

Castiel snorts. “Me, the melodramatic one? Says the man who in second grade threatened the substitute teacher with a lawsuit because she took your crayons away.”

“I think we both know how that would’ve turned out,” the man on the other end of the phone sounds smug, “There’s no way I would’ve lost. Even though I was only in second grade, that woman never stood a chance.”

Castiel rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. “I know for a fact you didn’t only call me to discuss your escapades. What is it?”

Balthazar tsks quietly and sighs, “You’re no fun at all.”

“The point here, Balthazar?”

“Yes, yes, alright,” the man sighs over the phone, “I just called my _dearest_ old friend to let you know that I’ll be coming into town today!”

Castiel holds back a sound of surprise and grins despite himself. “That’s great,” he replies, completely deadpan.

“You wound me, Castiel. You truly wound me,” Balthazar scoffs across the receiver. “But I know you better than that. You’re probably terribly excited to see me. I bet you’re quaking in your shoes with thinly concealed joy.”

Cas surveys his bare feet skeptically. “Right,” he absently tidies up his kitchen table, completely covered in various papers and documents, as he speaks to his friend, “That’s definitely what’s happening here.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” Balthazar hums from the other end.

Castiel tips his head slightly to one side, furrowing his brow. “What’re you talking about? I thought you just got off the plane.”

Balthazar tuts. “Wrong again, Castiel dear. You came up with that yourself,” he teases.

A knock sounds on Castiel’s door, and he’s suddenly filled with an unwarranted feeling of dread. Biting his lip and hoping it’s not who he thinks it is, because it is _way_ too early and he is much too sober to be dealing with Balthazar, he makes his way over to his apartment door from the kitchen. As he unlocks it, the phone call abruptly ends. In a second, the door has been pushed flush against the interior wall and Balthazar fills the frame, all straw-blonde hair and neatly trimmed suit lines.

He flings his arms out in a grand gesture as he enters the apartment, announcing on the way in, “Ta-da! Your ever important, devilishly handsome, and well-bred best friend has arrived!”

Castiel lets out a groan, shutting the door behind his friends undoubtedly caffeine induced entrance. He barely has time to turn around before Balthazar sweeps him into a firm embrace, quite possibly squeezing Castiel’s lungs out of his chest. “Oh, Castiel,” he sing-songs, “It’s been a great while since I last saw you, however did you manage to get along without my enlightening presence to guide you?”

“It was a struggle,” Castiel voices sarcastically, awkwardly patting Balthazar’s back in the hopes of getting him to let go.

Balthazar huffs, but releases Castiel from his vice-like grip. “I know you missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

Castiel scoffs and turns on his heel, heading back into the kitchen to resume his tidying. “Please, spare me the third-rate romance novel script you’re making about us in your head,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Oh, you mean like the one you wrote about that handsome cook a couple of weeks back?” he hears Balthazar shoot back smugly. Castiel flushes, and glances back at his friend, who’s looking way too self-satisfied for his liking.

“How do you even know about that?” he croaks, completely embarrassed with himself.

Balthazar twirls his key ring smoothly around his finger, aiming for nonchalant. “I have my connections.”

“Meaning Gabriel,” Cas intones.

Balthazar makes a face, but doesn’t deny it. Instead he says, “Anyway, it was a _very_ interesting read. I’m only hoping I can meet the man tonight at the restaurant.”

Castiel doesn’t know whether he should address the fact that his traitorous brother actually _emailed_ Balthazar a copy of his ‘review’ or the fact that apparently Balthazar had already made plans to go Chiaroscuro first.

Instead of voicing either of these concerns, what pops out of his mouth is a weak, “…what.”

Balthazar chuckles and claps Castiel on the shoulder. “Did you really think I’d drop in town and _not_ see the man who’s managed to capture my best friend’s heart?”

Castiel flushes again, deeper this time. “He hasn’t _captured my heart_ ,” he hisses out. “It’s nowhere near that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” his friend begins, “So you just write love sonnets about any bartender or chef you review who happens to have a cute ass?”

“They’re not _love_ sonnets, Balthazar, for god’s sake!” Castiel feels like a tomato he’s blushing so red.

“They sure sounded that way to me.”

“Oh, for the love of-,” Castiel gets cut off by Balthazar waving his hand lazily in the air.

He huffs again. “Fine, fine, if you’re in denial, Cassie, that’s fine. Just know that you’re lying to yourself.”

Castiel grimaces at the endearment, batting Balthazar’s hand away when it attempts to ruffle his hair. “Please don’t call me that. I get enough from Gabriel.” He decides against telling Balthazar about his newer, much preferred nickname that he’d been recently given by Dean.

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, _Castiel_ ,” he emphasizes sarcastically. The older man glances down at his shiny Rolex. “Oh, look at the time. It’s gotten quite late,” he says flippantly, “I’ll have to meet you down at the restaurant. I have a table reserved under Salvation for eight o’clock sharp.” Balthazar turns cleanly on his heel and strides down the hall and to the door.

“Don’t be late!” he adds right before he shuts the door in Castiel’s face.

Cas stands there for a minute, feeling oddly shell-shocked. Dealing with Balthazar is like being in a boxing match: fast-paced, mentally stimulating, and completely and utterly exhausting. Castiel has the strangest feeling just then. It’s almost like a cold shiver runs down his spine.

He shakes his head to clear it. He’s probably being ridiculous. Nothing bad is going to happen.

Despite all of his attempts to convince himself of that, Castiel is so distracted the rest of the day that he accidentally sends Gabriel a pdf of _Pride and Prejudice_ he has on his computer instead of the magazine template he’s approved. Additionally, he’s fallen into the toilet bowl because he forgot to put it down earlier, he’s whacked his head on the bottom of the highest kitchen cabinet getting up, and he’d tied his tie wrong which resulted in a wrestling match with the damn thing until it’d finally come undone.

All in all, the feeling hadn’t gone away, Castiel was strangely wary and now in more than a little physical pain. It’s a miracle he didn’t crash his car on the way to the restaurant.

When he arrives, he’d greeted by Jess, the waitress he’d been told works the night-shifts and who has an enormous crush on Sam. All from Dean, of course. Castiel absently glances around the floor of Perdition, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sandy blonde hair he’d become oddly fond of during the past few weeks. Much to his disappointment, the chef was nowhere to be seen, and Castiel was ushered up the stairs and into the Salvation seating area.

The night is beautiful: classical music is playing softly in the background, its notes swirling up through the glimmering strands of lights and through the dark green ivy towards the shining stars, the patterns of which he’d come to associate with the constellations of freckles on Dean’s skin.

Castiel is broken out of his thoughts by Balthazar, who is sitting at a table in the middle of Salvation, waving at Castiel. As he makes his way over, Castiel smirks. “You always did have to be the center of attention, didn’t you?” he smirks.

Balthazar flashes him a winning smile. “Why Cassie,” he grins impishly, “I have no idea what you’ve talking about. I’m practically an angel.”

Cas couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his chest at the irony of the statement. He leaned forwards, clapping his hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “You’re about as angelic as the devil.” The stricken look on Balthazar’s face is enough to send him into another bought of laughter. He doubles over closer, and that’s when he sees it in the corner of his eye.

_Dean_.

Castiel can’t help but smile. The man looks beautiful, as always, in his chef’s outfit. The way the sleeves of his shirt hug his biceps just right, looking enticing even from where Castiel is sitting. And his face, his _face_ , is prefect, sun kissed- and looking strangely upset.

In a moment, Dean is whirling around and high-tailing it out of Salvation. Castiel doesn’t even realize he’s standing until Balthazar tugs on his sleeve.

“What’re you doing, Castiel?” he asks, half-joking.

Cas shakes away Balthazar’s grip, making his way around the table.

“Castiel?” he hears Balthazar call from behind him. But doesn’t listen, keeps moving. Dean saw him, he _knows_ he did. Then why is he running?

Better yet, why the hell is Castiel chasing him?

Cas stumbles down the stairs in time to hear Sam calling out Dean’s name from inside the kitchen. He runs out the front doors, feet pounding the pavement, heart skipping a beat as he hears the engine of Dean’s car purr to life. He stumbles into the parking lot just as Dean peels out, tail-lights already fading in the distance.

Castiel feels his mouth go dry for some reason. He’s confused and a little hurt. Dean definitely saw him. And he left. Hell, he ran away from Castiel. He takes in a slightly shaky breath and stands in the parking lot a moment longer until he’s absolutely sure Dean’s car had faded from sight.

Heart sinking and the feeling of dread worse than ever, Castiel swallows hard, turns, and makes his way through the doors and back into Perdition.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………....

_But I hate to think about you with somebody else_

Dean wakes up shivering, a weight pressing down heavily on his ribcage. The apartment is silent. Not even the alarm clock is ringing. When Dean glances at it, he realizes that he’d actually woken up an hour before his alarm went off. And if that isn’t the depressing-metaphorical cherry on the ice cream sundae that’s been his shitty week then he doesn’t know what is.

He pulls himself out of bed, throwing his legs over the side and resting his elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. One and a half million dollars. What the hell was he _thinking?_ He can’t possibly make that much money in a month and half. He’s only a man for god’s sake. It’ll be a miracle if he manages to scrape together enough money to pay for Sam’s next college check. But on the other hand, he can’t lose his shop. It’d kill him. If he lost it, he’d, he’d- well, he doesn’t know what he’d do, but it’d probably involve getting so hammered that he forgot his name.

As Dean sits, he runs the numbers in his head. His restaurant is making a hefty sum of money every week, but most of it goes back into the shop: gathering ingredients, paying employees, keeping the local bands coming. Cutting back on wages and cutting out the weekend gigs should save a good amount of money. Even so, he’d probably need to pick up another job. Or several other jobs. He hasn’t decided yet.

Shaking his head, Dean stands and gets dressed, foregoing breakfast that morning. He’s not sure he could even keep anything down. Between the whole money fiasco and what happened with Cas last night, his stomach is twisted up into knots. Cas. Even remembering the man in Salvation the night before with his _date_ makes him feel sick. There’s an air of wrongness about it that he doesn’t quite know how to describe, but it’s there; hovering over him like a thundercloud.

Dean locks up his apartment door and starts to head down the hallway. He decides to go to Singer Auto and see if he can work on a few cars to help make some quick cash. Bobby lets him work in the shop whenever he needs to, no questions asked, because he knows that even though Dean’s successful, he’s still a twenty-something with no clue what he’s doing with his life or his wallet.

It’s nearly four in the morning when Dean gets to Singer Auto. He remembers that he didn’t shut off his alarm clock, meaning that it’ll be ringing all day until he goes back home. _Fuck_. Dean hopes the neighbors won’t complain. He really doesn’t need to be evicted on top of the shit-storm he’s currently trying to deal with.

Dean takes out his keys and flicks open the front lock with the copy of Bobby’s keys he’d had made a while back. He flips the open sign on and heads into the locker room to change into the grey-blue jumpsuit he has stashed in Bobby’s office.

The shop’s pretty dead at four thirty in the morning, so Dean spends it drinking the crappy instant coffee Bobby has out for the customers and walks the aisles of the interior portion of the shop, straightening window cleaner and making sure that everything is where it’s supposed to be. Bobby comes in at six in the morning and shoots Dean a questioning glance, but doesn’t comment on Dean’s unexplained presence, aside from his morning greeting of, “Morning, princess.”

The first customer rushes through the doors later, and Dean heads out into the garage portion of the store to start working on the cars that need the most fixing-up, leaving Bobby to handle all of the customers. Before he starts, he whips out his phone and shoots Benny a text telling him that he’ll be in later that evening.

Working on the cars is strangely therapeutic for Dean. It’s mechanical, in both senses of the word, and sort of mindless work for him. The simplicity of it is beautiful: find the problem, write it on down on the ticket, fix the problem. If only the real world were so easily dealt with. On his lunch break, Dean wipes the black motor oil on his jumpsuit and calls Ellen to let her know he’ll be picking up a couple of shifts during the week. Like Bobby, she doesn’t ask questions, but seems to know something’s up.

“You’re not working yourself too hard, right?” she asks, worry evident in her tone.

Dean snorts to himself. If only she knew. Instead, he says, “Of course not. I’ll be fine. Just need a bit more money to help pay the rent this month.”

He can hear the frown in Ellen’s voice when she replies, “If you’re short on cash, you can just ask for it, you know. You’re our son.”

Dean feels his chest constrict, and wonders if she’d say the same thing if he were to tell her just how short on cash he really was. “I’d rather work for it, if that’s alright with you.”

“Stop being so damn honorable, Dean,” Ellen half-laughs.

Dean chuckles and they say their goodbyes. He finishes up his sandwich he stole from Bobby and works until twelve in the afternoon. When he’s done with the car who’s motor he’d been fixing, Dean changes out of his jumpsuit and says goodbye to Bobby, driving quickly back to his apartment to take a shower before he goes in to Chiaroscuro.

When he gets to the shop, Sam comes up to him, grin changing to a frown when he sees Dean.

“Holy shit, man,” he says, “You look like you’ve been hit with a bus.”

Dean forces a grin even though he knows Sam is right. He can _feel_ his bags. “So this is what it feels like to look like you,” he smirks.

Sam shoots him a bitchface. “Nevermind,” Sam sighs, “You’re the same as ever.”

Dean chokes out a half-hearted laugh before he clears his throat. “Uhm, hey,” he begins, shifting his weight on both legs, “Is Castiel here today?”

Sam gives him a funny look. “Yeah,” he responds slowly, “ _Cas_ is here. He’s in Perdition right now.” Grinning, he adds, “Can’t wait to see him, can you?”

“Just tell me when he leaves, alright?” Dean says, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” his little brother asks again. Sam’s face is a mixture of confusion and concern. And damn if Dean doesn’t almost give in to his brother’s puppy dog eyes. He bites his tongue, determined to keep Sam ignorant of the situation.

He plasters a grin on his face again, knowing it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Really man. I’m fine.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but nods unsurely and heads back outside.

True to his word, Sam informs him when Castiel leaves. Dean tells himself that the tightness in his chest is just worry and sleep deprivation.

...

Dean continues on in that way for two more weeks. He wakes up stupidly early, goes in to work a half-day at Singer Auto before he goes into the restaurant. He picks up shifts at The Roadhouse, Ellen’s bar, on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays and cuts back on the bands that play in Chiaroscuro on the weekends.

He’s exhausted. The bags under his eyes have transitioned from grey to blue to purple to black. Dean hasn’t shaved in a while, and the stubble itching his skin is a new sensation to him. It’s only been two weeks, but when he looks in the mirror it looks like he’s ten years older.

Sam’s been worried, uncharacteristically so. He’s tried talking to Dean about what’s wrong, if it’s about the shop, if it’s about _Castiel_ of all things. And admittedly, Cas is kind of contributing to his stress. The dull ache in his chest hasn’t gone away, he hasn’t forgotten about the date, and he certainly hasn’t forgotten how happy Cas had looked with the other man.

He’s in the middle of working on a car the same color as Castiel’s eyes when he hears Bobby clear his throat behind him.

“I think it’s time you go home, son,” Bobby suggests.

Dean gestures lamely to the open-hooded car in front of him. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes, you are,” Bobby tells him sternly as he snatches Dean’s tool kit away from his grip. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but Ellen tells me you’re also working shifts at the bar. I don’t know what’s going on and we’re all more than a little worried about you.”

Dean bristles a little. “I’m fine,” he grinds out.

“You’re clearly not fine, you idgit. You can barely keep your eyes open, for god’s sake. You haven’t shaved in a week and quite frankly, you smell.”

“Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” Dean rolls his eyes.

Bobby’s tone softens by a fraction. “All I’m saying is that you should go home and take care of yourself, get some rest.”

Dean sighs. “I know,” he swallows hard, “But I can’t. Not yet. Just…let me finish the shift.”

Bobby sighs and shakes his head, but hands Dean back his tool kit. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Fine. There’s a customer out there. Take care of it and go the hell home.”

Dean nods and cleans his hands before pushing through the door and out behind the register. He’s looking at the cash register, which is probably why he doesn’t notice who the man is until he speaks.

“Dean?” a familiar gravelly voice asks.

His eyes shoot up. Cas is standing across the counter, ticket in hand and mouth slightly agape. “What’re you doing here?” Castiel continues.

The phrase “None of your business” is out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it.

Castiel stiffens noticeably and nods curtly. He practically shoves the ticket at Dean. “I need a new tail light.”

Dean nods, pretending to write something down on his notepad so that he doesn’t have to look up and face those piercing blue eyes. “Ok. Leave your number. We’ll call you when it’s done.” He pushes down the disappointed feeling that _this_ is the way he’s finally getting Cas’s number.

Castiel obliges and turns and walks away before Dean can say anything else. His mouth feels like cotton as he watches the other man stride stiffly out of the shop, hands buried in his trenchcoat pockets. And hey, there’s that feeling in his chest again.

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose and wonders how everything went so wrong so quickly.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Show me how to lie/ you’re getting better all the time_

Cas isn’t grumpy. He’s _not_. He’s just sleep deprived and worried about his upcoming deadline. He’s anxious about whether or not Gabriel is planning on sending his embarrassing email around to any more of his friends. He’s…he’s… oh gods, he’s in denial.

Castiel is confused with the way Dean’s been treating him. He doesn’t know why the man’s been avoiding him, only that he has. Every time he’d gone back to Chiaroscuro after his night out with Balthazar, the cook avoided him like the plague. And damn it all, Castiel _knows_ there’s something more going on; something he’s missing but he can’t figure it out and it’s driving him _insane._ Castiel knows he’s not the best in social situations, he knows this, and he’s been told multiple time by Balthazar and Gabriel that his “people skills” are “rusty” whatever that even means.

But even more than his lack of social skills, Castiel is incredibly worried about the blonde cook. There’s something seriously wrong with him, and not just from the fact that he’s working in an auto shop during his off hours. The man had bags on his bags when Castiel had last seen him: his face white and swallow, beard unshaved and growing more unruly, and overly caffeinated, if the slight tremor in Dean’s hand when he’d given Castiel the pen was any indication.

He tries to tell himself that he’s only worried about the cook platonically, but even he knows it’s a lie. Hence, his denial-filled morning. Castiel is so preoccupied that he doesn’t even notice that his morning toast is done until the smell of smoke fills his spacious apartment.

Castiel huffs under his breath and pulls the toast out, tossing it from hand to hand as he hurries to the sink to submerge it in water. Looks like he’s not having breakfast today. He makes his way over to his bedroom to change into his work outfit. He has a fun filled day of morning conferences and business reviews and reading health inspector forms over until his eyes bleed. Cas arrives in the bathroom as he tries to tie his tie for the fourth time in a row. He looks at his harried expression.

His hair is disheveled, as usual, and his five o’ clock shadow looks like it’s beginning to make an early appearance. Castiel notices the semi-permanent worry crease between his eyebrows and frowns deeper.

He jumps when his phone goes off. “What is wrong with me?” he sighs to himself as he runs a hand down his face and trudges into the kitchen to turn his damn ringtone off.

_The heat of the moment shone in your eyessssssss_ it blares before he can stop it. Grumbling under his breath, Castiel swears that the next time he sees Gabriel he’ll get him to change the damn thing.

“What?” he spits into the phone.

“Woah, Cassie, what crawled up your ass and died?” his brother laughs over the phone.

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had a rather rough morning.”

Gabriel snorts, “Yeah, because being a young, eligible bachelor millionaire is _soo_ difficult.”

“I’m not in the mood, Gabriel,” he snarls into the receiver.

Cas hears his brother sigh over the line. “Fine. You’ve never been a good sport in the mornings Cassie dear, you know that?”

“There’s a difference from being a good sport to being your personal punching bag, brother,” Castiel snarks.

Gabriel laughs. “There’s my asshole of a brother that I know and love!”

Cas rolls his eyes. “What do you want?”

“You’re coming in today, right?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Because it’s nine. Your shift started at eight.”

Castiel can feel his eyes bug out. He shoots a glance at the clock mounted on his wall. It is indeed nine in the morning. Castiel curses and fumbles to get his shoes on without putting his phone down.

“…you forgot, didn’t you?” Gabriel asks hesitantly.

“I’m on my way,” Castiel responds, shrugging on his tan trench coat and grabbing his keys. He bustles out of his apartment and knocks his shoulder on the door frame on his way out. His phone drops to the floor as he hisses in pain and cups his shoulder with his hand that isn’t currently locking his door. There’s definitely going to be a bruise tomorrow. \

Castiel picks up his phone to hear his brother ask, “Seriously Castiel, is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” he automatically deflects even as he can feel pain running up his shoulder.

“Alright,” Gabriel replies, not sounding convinced in the slightest, “Just don’t get on the wrong train today, OK?”

Cas agrees and hastily hangs up on his brother in favor of heading towards the subway station, counting down the days until he can get his car back. He manages to make it to work by ten in the morning, which is pretty fair, all things considered. He runs into his building, not even bothering to say good morning to anybody as he beelines for the elevator. Castiel reaches his brother’s office in record time, not even caring that Kali is seated in his brother’s lap.

“Nice of you to finally make it, Cassie, I was-,” Gabriel’s next words die in his throat at the sight of his brother. Instead of making another joke, Gabriel gently pats Kali’s thigh, who gets up and strolls right out of the room as if she owns the place.

“You look like shit,” Gabriel says.

Castiel actually snorts and shrugs a little. “I told you, I’m fine.” While he may’ve been able to get away with the lie over the phone, there’s no way he’s going to in real life, and both of the brothers know it.

Gabriel points at the chair located on the other side of his cluttered desk. “Sit.” It’s more of a command than a request.

“Am I your dog now?” Castiel sighs, attempting to relieve some tension.

Instead, Gabriel narrows his eyes and folds his hands together on the top of his desk, leaning forwards in what can only be described as a cliché business man pose. “Something’s bothering you,” he states. Before Castiel can deny it, Gabriel continues, “and I mean _really_ bothering you. I haven’t seen you this upset since Mom and Dad left.”

“I’m,” Castiel starts before Gabriel cuts him off.

“I swear, if you say ‘I’m fine’ one more time I _will_ stuff all of my candy wrappers down your pants.”

Cas shudders and surveys the candy covered surface that Gabriel calls a desk and wisely decides to keep his mouth shut.

“Does this have anything to do with that hunk of a chef?” Gabriel presses.

Castiel must get whiplash with how fast his neck snaps up to face his brother.

Gabriel clenches his intertwined fingers together. “I see I’m right. What’s happening with you two? Is he an asshole?” Castiel swears he sees fire in his brother’s eyes as he barrels on, “Or did he reject you like every other homophobic white male you’ve asked out?”

“Gabriel-,” Castiel interjects.

“Because we have the resources to get him and his business shut down, no matter how shady it looks. I swear to God if he did anything to you-,”

“Really, Gabriel, I doubt that he’d-,”

“I will literally wring his friggin neck until his fanfiction green eyes pop out of his damn perfect face if you just give me the word, Cassie, I swear-,”

Castiel slams his hand on the desk. “Gabriel, will you _please_ just listen to me?”

His brother falls quiet and he continues, “It’s nothing like that, I swear. I haven’t even made a move on him!”

Gabriel shakes his head in disapproval. “Seriously, Cassie? At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, he’s totally into you, and we both know you wanna tap that.”

Castiel can feel himself flush red. “Honestly Gabriel, why do I even tell you these things?”

“Because I’m a relationship guru,” he smirks back.

“Really?” Castiel rolls his eyes, “Is that why the most you can ever get out of Kali is a series of one night stands?”

Gabriel narrows his eyes again. “I do believe we were talking about _your_ love life Cassie, or lack thereof, and not my clearly superior one.”

“Right,” Cas continues, “And that’s not the issue here Gabriel. I can’t even get close enough to him to make a move. I swear he’s avoiding me.”

Gabriel laughs. “And what exactly about this is funny to you, _brother_?” Castiel growls.

“He clearly thinks you’re not into him,” Gabriel wipes a tear from his eye, “I mean, you only go to his restaurant when you talk to him. He probably thinks you’re interested in a business-only relationship.”

“It can’t seriously be that easy,” Castiel responds. Though thinking back, Gabriel does have a point. Even when he ran into Dean at the garage, he was technically working. As much as it pains him to say, Gabriel might have a point.

“Trust me, Cassie, it is,” Gabriel snorts, “When you see him next, just ask to take him out and make it _very clear_ that you’re interested in sexy times with him.”

Castiel groans and smiles despite himself. “I hate you.”

Gabriel points a finger at his younger brother as he clarifies, “No, you hate that I’m _right_ , Castiel. There’s a difference. And if that’s all that’s troubling you, maybe we can finally start working on everything we should’ve had done by now.”

Cas nods and together they start working. When their day extends into the _very_ late hours of the night, Castiel can’t even find it in himself to care, because he has a battle plan for how he’s going to deal with Dean the next time he sees him.

All of which goes right down the drain when he goes to pick up his car on Friday evening and finds himself faced with the chef, who looks even worse than before. His bags are at least three shades darker than the last time, and he’s about five pounds thinner than he was two weeks ago. Castiel feels the bottom of his stomach fall out when Dean looks up at him, eyes glassy, and asks:

“Name?”

Castiel’s mouth is surprisingly dry when he responds, “Castiel Novak.”

Not a flicker of recognition is in Dean’s eyes as he sorts through the slips in front of him, and Castiel feels more worried than before.

“Are you alright, Dean?” he asks hesitantly.

Dean’s green eyes snap up to his, and he wonders aloud, “How exactly do you know my name?”

It’s not even been half a month since Castiel had gone to Chiaroscuro. He points to Dean’s nametag. “That. And that I’ve literally been to your restaurant and talked to you about twenty times.”

Dean’s eyes widen when he finally recognizes Castiel. “Cas!” he chokes out, attempting a smile, “Sorry man, I’m a bit out of it today.” He hands the order slip to Castiel to sign.

As he does, he finds that his eyes stray to Dean again. When the man thinks Castiel isn’t looking, his façade drops, and he looks older than just twenty-four and tired beyond his years. Castiel hands back the slip and Dean goes into the back to bring out Castiel’s car.

He hears an older man’s voice boom from the back, “What the hell are you doing, boy?”

Dean’s voice answers, “Getting Cas’s car, Bobby, what the hell does it look like?”

“Watch your tone, ya idgit,” Bobby growls, “and go home. You look like you’re about to pass out. God knows how you drove into work today.”

“I swear Bobby, this is the last car I’ll take,” Dean pleads.

“You said that three hours ago, Dean. At this point, I’m about to ban you from coming back into the shop until you look like you’ve actually slept more than two hours.”

Dean sighs. “Fine,” he fumes, “I’ll bring this car out and then I’ll head home.”

“No way,” Bobby exclaims, incredulous, “You driving at this time in the evening would be like asking for an accident.”

“Sam can’t drive me tonight, he has a shift.”

“Then take the subway.”

“I can’t afford it!” Dean yells.

Bobby is silent for a moment and even Cas shifts his weight awkwardly at the admission. “You can’t afford a subway ride, boy?” Bobby’s tone is considerably softer.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean tries to backtrack, “It’s just, I’m…it’s complicated right now.”

Castiel hears Bobby take a few steps closer to where Dean is presumably standing. “If you’re in trouble, boy, your mom and I would be more than willing to help out, you know that right?”

Dean sighs and replies, “I know, I know, but I can’t explain right now.”

Before the conversation can continue and Castiel hears anything else he’s not supposed to, her calls from the front, “I can give him a ride home, if that’d be helpful.”

Bobby huffs from behind the double doors separating the garage from the office and pokes his hear through the opening, narrowing his eyes at Castiel. “You know my boy?”

Castiel can’t explain exactly what about the man makes him stand up straighter, but he does regardless. “Yes sir, I’ve reviewed his restaurant and visited multiple times. I’d like to think we’re friends.”

Dean is suspiciously quiet when Bobby thinks a moment before agreeing, “I suppose taking a ride from you is better than getting in a crash or walking into the subway tracks. He’s all yours.”

_If only_ , Castiel thinks to himself bitterly. Instead, he nods. “Not a problem, sir.”

Dean huffs as Bobby takes Castiel’s keys from his hand and gives them to Cas. Bobby sends Dean into the back to collect his things and rings Castiel up, eyeing him in the process.

“So you’re Castiel Novak, right?”

“Yes sir,” Cas nods and swallows nervously.

“Good to finally meet you,” Bobby chuckles to himself, “Dean’s been yapping on about you for ages.”

Despite himself, Castiel feels his cheeks turn pink. “That’s, um.. that’s very flattering.”

Bobby gives him a knowing look but doesn’t press the issue. Thankfully, Dean comes out from the back, a small gym bag slung over his shoulder, his black chef’s outfit peeking out of the top. Bobby nods the boys out of the office and together they make their way to Castiel’s Prius.

For the first time in quite a while, something akin to humor sparks in Dean’s eyes. “A Prius. Really Cas?”

Castiel snorts. “I know it’s nothing compared to yours, but I do my best. And it’s very fuel efficient.”

Dean shakes his head, but smiles and nods. “Whatever you say.”

Castiel nods to Dean’s bag once they’re in the car. “Come to work straight from work?” he jokes.

Judging from the way Dean’s eyes darken, that was probably the worst thing Castiel could’ve brought up, and he immediately kicks himself for it.

“I mean, I-,” He tries to amend.

“I don’t want to talk about it, OK?” Dean growls at him, turning towards the window to watch the New York nightscape flit past.

And that’s that.

The two spend the rest of the ride to Dean’s apartment in cold silence, and when they stop in front of the apartment building, Dean all but jumps out of the car.

“Dean, I-,” Castiel tries, leaning over to look out of the passenger side window at Dean.

The chef promptly slams the door in his face, turns on his heel, and walks up the stairs into his apartment building, never once looking back.

Castiel feels his heart ache a little bit and sighs to himself, reversing out of the parking space and into the night, all the while discarding his stupid plans. Dean had made his feeling towards Castiel perfectly clear.

Gabriel’s an idiot.

_He’s_ an idiot.

With a heavy heart, Castiel makes his way back home and realizes that he didn’t even get Gabriel to change his ringtone.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Crashing/ Hit a wall/ Right now I need a miracle_

The next morning, if you’d have asked Dean to describe himself in five words or less, he would’ve responded with: _I’m such an asshole._ As he rolls out of bed, and subsequently lands on the floor, tangled in sheets, he recalls last night’s events and feels an overwhelming urge to drink blink. _Smooth_ , Dean thinks to himself, _insulting the top food critic in New York, who also happens to maybe be the most attractive man on earth, is a_ stellar _idea._ The man groans as he brushes his teeth and looks at himself in the mirror. No wonder Cas was worried about him, he really does look like shit.

Actually, he looks more like he’s been run over multiple times by a steam roller, but starting the day of with a dose of self-deception seems easier to Dean than the brutal truth.

Taking on multiple jobs was both the best and the worst decision of Dean’s life. On one hand, the extra money is really helping his savings, and since Bobby is family, he gets to work whenever he wants for however long he can physically remain standing. Which, he’ll admit, seems to be shorter and shorter. The lack of sleep finally seems to be wearing on him. It feels like the weariness is bone deep, and it’s all Dean can do to not fall asleep in the shower, lulled into a doze by the warm water.

Despite his body’s protests, Dean manages to be out of the door on time and heads into the parking lot, where he promptly remembers that he doesn’t have a car to go to work in.

“Shit,” Dean curses. It’s way too early for him to ask Sam to come and pick him up, but late and busy enough that taxi prices will be a fortune. Sighing, Dean begrudgingly walks the blocks to the nearest subway station, where he spends a couple of hard earned dollars on a ticket.

It seems that today is going to be terrible, even by Winchester standards.

Nevertheless, Dean manages to get to work with barely enough time to set up shop before Benny arrives, sending a curious look at Dean but fortunately not asking about his manager’s haggard appearance.

Cooking has always been therapeutic for Dean, and today is no exception. He almost manages to forget that his life is currently going to hell until Sam comes up to Dean during his break.

“Dude,” he starts, “So it’s almost Jess’s birthday, but I have no idea what to get for her. I mean, I want it to be something nice, but also something useful, since Jess is really practical like that, but at the same unique, you know? And it’s all really complicated and difficult to find things that I think she’d like, and, you know, since she’s been working for you longer than I’ve known her, I thought you might have some ideas.”

Dean stands there, mouth hanging slightly ajar, still digesting Sam’s first sentence. It’s almost Jess’s birthday, which is on _December 17th_. Dean swears his heart stops. More than half of his time is up.

“Son of a bitch,” he breaths to himself. He’s nowhere _near_ one and a half million dollars, and he only has two weeks left. “Son of a _bitch!_ ”

Sam only manages to look confused and open his mouth before Dean’s turning on his heel and speeding for his office, heart in his throat.

The room starts spinning around him, and despite the gulping breaths Dean’s taking in, it feels like he can’t breathe. Panting and sweating, he sits in the nearest chair and tries to focus on a spot on the floor to ground himself, but panic flashes high in his chest and spiders creep into his vision. And, oh god, black starts seeping into his line of sight, and his chest’s heaving, and there’s no fucking _way_ he’ll make the deadline; he’s going to lose it all, the restaurant, his apartment, his dream, and even Sam’s college education. For god’s sakes, he’s the one making the payments, and he can’t bring down Sam with him, he _can’t,_ but man he’s fucked up and there’s no way out, there’s no way he can-

“Dean?” Sam asks quietly from the doorway, “What’s going on?”

Dean turns in his seat and looks back at his brother standing in the doorway, hunched over, eyes wide with concern, and he looks small and scared, despite his height. For a moment, he looks just like the child he was during the night of the fire. The thought alone is enough to get Dean to swallow his panic and force a smile.

“Heya, Sammy,” his voice sounds gruff, even to his own ears.

Sam approaches cautiously, like Dean’s some sort of wild animal, and considering he probably looks like a deer caught in the headlights, it’s an apt comparison.

“Are you having a panic attack?” Sam asks, voice uncharacteristically soft.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. Instead, he looks back at the stain on the floor and doesn’t say a word.

“Dean,” his younger brother says, “You haven’t had one of those in years. What’s going on?”

“I can’t- it’s complicated,” Dean tries.

Sam scoffs. “Man, I’m in law school for crying out loud, I’ve been in mock trials. I _know_ complicated, alright?”

Huffing, Dean tries again, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well I do,” Sam gets closer, “It must be serious if you’re having panic attacks, and I won’t let you go through this alone.”

“Goddamnit Sammy, we are _not_ sitting down and having a heart to heart talk like we’re in some fucking chick flick movie!”

Sam leans down and pokes his older brother in the chest. “You must be running out of excuses if you’re already pulling the ‘chick-flick’ card,” he smirks.

Exasperated, Dean lets out a sigh and rubs his forehead. “Please, Sam, I don’t wanna talk about it,” he grumbles, “and besides, it’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern?” Sam throws back, “You’re my _brother!_ If that doesn’t make it my concern, I don’t know what will.”

“Sammy please just _trust me_ , I know what I’m doing!” Dean growls, “I don’t want you involved.”

Sam’s face contorts in anger. “I’m not Sammy anymore Dean, I’m an adult and I can take care of myself. Which means you get absolutely _no say_ in what I can and will do.”

“Then you get no say in my decisions either,” Dean snorts, “For being a lawyer, you sure know how to talk yourself into a box.”

His little brother fumes silently, more angry at himself than Dean and only sends one bitchface Dean’s way before huffing and stomping out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Jesus,” he sighs to himself, sinking down lower into the chair, even more exhausted than before. Regardless, he’s up on his feet and out of his office in less than ten minutes to start working again. It’s a Friday, so Dean’s on full shift today.

The hours pass quickly and Dean does as many tasks, both necessary and not, to distract himself from the money situation and the man with the blue eyes who won’t get out of his damned head. Everything’s moving smoothly later that night- he’s even managed to avoid Castiel who, according to Sam, went up to Salvation alone.

Everything is fine until his phone rings, Iron Maiden’s _Number of the Beast_ blaring from his pocket over the sound of frying foods and oven doors being slammed. Wiping his hands on his towel, Dean prepares himself for the upcoming conversation.

“Crowley,” he says by way of greeting, “What do you want?”

“Just thought I’d call to see how you were doing. Financially, of course,” Crowley purrs.

Dean clenches his hand into a fist and grits his teeth, setting down the knife he’d been holding. Probably not the best to wield a weapon while angry. “Of course.”

“I also called to let you know that the price has been raised.”

Dean swears the world stops moving as he grinds out, “What.”

“Two million and counting, darling,” the owner grins through the receiver, “We’ve had a _very_ generous bid.”

“Wait, hold on. _Two million?_ ”

“I believe that’s what I just said, yes.”

“I can’t,” Dean swallows hard, “Afford two million. I can barely make one and a half.”

“Well then, squirrel,” Crowley growls, “It appears as though you’d better get creative. I expect the money by the same day we previously agreed upon.”

Dean leans against the nearest refrigerator and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Crowley, even you must know this is impossible. There’s no way I can get that much money by the same deadline."

“Then I hope you’re not too attached to your little restaurant.” And with that, Crowley hangs up.

Dean lets the dial tone play for a moment before he feels his phone slipping through his fingers, not even caring when it hits the tiled floor with a crack. The world falls out from under him as he realizes what’s going to happen.

With that, he takes off his apron, throws it as hard as he can in the opposite direction, and does what any respectable adult would do in a completely life-altering situation.

He heads to Perdition’s bar to get shit-faced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Three: Living is Easy with Eyes Closed**

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_And now he’s so devoid of color/ he don’t know what it means_

 

Castiel tries not to be too disappointed. _It’s not like you even had a shot_ , he tries and fails to convince himself. The man huffs and drags a hand wearily down his face, knowing attempting to rationalize the problem is ultimately going to be pointless, but tries nonetheless. Hey, if there’s something to characterize who he is as a person, it’s his unfailing ability to overanalyze every single situation in order to make himself feel completely inadequate.

Which Castiel is currently doing from his positon on the edge of Salvation’s terrace. He looks over the wrought iron boundary and into the cityscape just beyond his reach. For a night in New York, the air is surprisingly clear, and it feels like if he stretches out his hand, he’ll be able to grasp the tall buildings jutting out of the horizon.

Castiel sighs and swirls his wine around in his glass, absentmindedly running the tip of his finger around the rim of the glass, resulting in a smooth, high pitched sound resonating from the glass. For a moment, Castiel sees the city like he did the first time he visited. The sunset paints the brick buildings surrounding Chiaroscuro in shades of orange and purple, and the skyscrapers that stretch towards the cloud line remind him why he chose New York to settle, of all places.

They’re strangely hopeful to Castiel for some reason. The human ingenuity it took to come up with such an idea, to _problem solve_ in the way that only humans truly can, messily and quickly but also strangely beautifully. It makes him feel as though things aren’t as bleak as they seem.

He takes a look around at the other diners in Salvation, wondering if they too are feeling what he is. Instead, he finds most of them intently focused on their phones and tablets, even the ones that are together, and the ones not preoccupied with their screens are talking animatedly amongst each other.

Not for the first time, Castiel feels strangely alone in a crowd of people.

And all of a sudden, he’s hit with a rush of anger. Anger for what they’re missing out on, on what they might never get to experience if they don’t wise up and take a look at the world around them and see it for what it really _is_ , not what they’re pretending it is. The world, or rather, the people on it, are toxic and disgusting, yes, he’ll admit that much at least, but, like the city itself, it’s also magnificent and splendid and wholly amazing, if only they could _see it_ -

It suddenly occurs to him that maybe he’s not talking about the city anymore, but one specific person residing within its limits.

And then he’s livid for a different reason. These people who sit up here with him, they have no _idea_ what’s happening to him, and deep down, Castiel knows it’s selfish and unfair to project like this, that the world doesn’t revolve around him, but it’s been so long since he’s had a good thing come into his life that he almost can’t take that everyone around him isn’t sinking along with him. He feels the inexplicable urge to pull them down with him, but he shakes his head quickly, clearing his mind of the thought. He’s well aware that placing so much value on one person is generally considered unhealthy, but Castiel isn’t quite sure that that’s what’s going on.

With Dean, things felt right. It was like they were two pieces of a puzzle, a terribly complicated one at that, and suddenly snapped into place when they were with each other. He takes a second to wonder if he’s drunk. Castiel always gets philosophical and poetic when he’s smashed.

Castiel takes a drink of his wine and checks his phone. _Hypocrite,_ he thinks, then shrugs. Human nature and all that.

He doesn’t realize that someone had been talking to him until they sit down in the chair opposite him, a big, hulking moose of a person almost completely obscuring Castiel’s view of the table in front of him.

“ _Castiel_ ,” Sam almost growls. Cas suspects that this isn’t the first time Sam had tried to get his attention.

Spluttering, Castiel looks up at Sam, whose face is twisted into a mix of pain and confusion. Castiel immediately knows something is wrong.

“What happened to him?” Cas blurts before he realizes he’s doing so.

Sam snorts for a second, forgetting himself, “Wow, you are _so_ far gone on him. You even have that weird, spidey-sense thing couples have.”

“Sam,” Castiel almost pleads, “What is it?”

The younger Winchester quickly sobers and looks old beyond his years. “He’s at the bar, more drunk than I’ve ever seen him.” Cas can almost feel his face draining of color as Sam adds, “I think he’s been at the bar since early in the afternoon, and I’m really worried about him.” He starts wringing his hands, which would look ridiculous on such a man if Castiel could stop feeling like the world was tilting for point two seconds. “He really needs to get home, but he obviously can’t drive, and I’m in the middle of working both of our shifts, and I really can’t step away so I hate to ask, but-,”

“I’ll take him home,” Castiel states firmly, brow furrowed in determination. He’s already out of his chair, slapping a twenty on his table for his drink and tucking his wallet into his back pocket, on a course for the stairs down into Purgatory.

Sam trails after him, sighing in relief. “Thank you so much man, I wouldn’t usually ask this of a customer, but you already know where he lives, and it’s pretty obvious that you’re not really even a customer to him anymore.”

Castiel grimaces as he heads down the stairs, and shoots a look at Sam over his shoulder. “Am I really that obvious?” he questions.

Sam scoffs in disbelief at the man and pushes past him on the stairwell, leading the way to the bar. “You’re _so_ obvious that the entire kitchen crew is running a gambling ring behind Dean’s back on when and who is going to make the first move.”

“Well, all of you have lost then,” Cas grumbles behind Sam, “It’s clear the feeling isn’t mutual.”

Before Sam can elaborate on just how far gone his older brother is on the food critic, they reach the bar, and Cas feels sick for a moment.

Draped across the bar is Dean, half asleep and holding a glass of what looks like whiskey, but is much too dark. “I had Ruby switch him over to coffee shots about two hours ago, and I’m like ninety percent sure he was too drunk to even notice.

Dean’s hair is disheveled, and it looks like he got into a street fight the circles around his eyes are so dark. His plaid shirt is rumpled and the sleeves are down, revealing a black shirt that Cas would normally love for hugging the chef in all the right places but it currently stained in what Castiel assumes is a mix of tears and various alcohols.

“Why isn’t he working at the garage today?” is all Castiel can think to say.

“Why would he be working at the garage?” Sam asks after a moment of silence, confusion painted across his features.

As they watch the man snore on the bar stool, Castiel mutters, “He didn’t tell you?”

Sam is quiet for some time. “I have a feeling that there’s a lot Dean doesn’t tell me,” he chokes out, looking a little teary-eyed, “I mean, he just…suffers in silence, you know?”

Castiel nods in agreement, feeling his throat tighten with empathy for the younger Winchester sibling, for how they both feel about the man they love.

And Cas pushes that new realization far, _far_ out of his mind for the time being, so he can focus on what needs to be done.

Castiel clears his throat and hands Sam his phone. “Put your number in there,” he instructs as he takes the high ball glass out of Dean’s hand and begins lifting him underneath his shoulders.

Sam hurriedly complies, typing in his contact information into Castiel’s phone before giving it back to the older man. Together, they manage to get Dean off of the bar and out of Chiaroscuro without waking Dean and without attracting too much negative attention. Once they shut the door to Castiel’s Prius behind Dean, who is happily asleep in the front seat, looking younger than he has in days, Sam turns back to Castiel and claps him on the shoulder.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Sam reiterates, “Dean really doesn’t know when to stop working, and always thinks it’s his sole responsibility to take care of everyone else and tries to fix all of the world’s problems by himself.”

“I know, I’ve come to realize that about him,” he looks at the handsome man knocked out in his front seat, “But I thinks that’s also what makes him so strong.”

“Dude,” Sam snorts, “If you ever get together, you’ll be perfect for him.” After Sam thanks him one last time and jogs back into the restaurant with the promise to talk with his older brother when he’s sober, Castiel sits behind the wheel of his car and buckles Dean in.

“The keyword there, Sam, is _if,_ ” he grumbles to himself. Castiel pulls out of the parking space and begins making his way towards Dean’s apartment. Once they arrive at Dean’s place, Castiel parks and quickly makes his way over to the passenger side door, unbuckling Dean and essentially tugging him out of the car.

“Mmph,” Dean grumbles blearily. Looks like Castiel wasn’t so successful in not waking the man this time.

“I need you to work with me a bit here,” Cas grunts out under Dean’s weight, trying not to spent too long resenting the fact that _this_ is the first time they’re completely pressed against each other.

“I can’t lose it,” Dean whispers into Castiel’s ear, sending shivers down his spine, “I can’t…..lost the restaurant.”

Castiel reaches for the keys tucked into Dean’s front pocket, silently insisting that this definitely _isn’t_ sexual in any way, and asks, half paying attention, “What? Why on Earth would you lose it?”

“High price, crooked lawyer,” Dean speaks in broken English when he’s drunk, apparently, “Can’t afford it.”

Castiel is suddenly paying very good attention. He kneels down for a moment after he opens the door, scooping Dean up into his arms with surprising strength, and high-tails it into the other man’s apartment. He tries and fails to not find it cute when Dean nuzzles into his neck, stubble scratching his skin.

Gingerly, Castiel sets Dean down on the couch and goes into the kitchen to get him the largest glass of water he can find and a bottle of ibuprofen, pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket as he goes.

“Sam?” he asks when the number connects.

“Yeah, Cas? What is it?” Sam sounds incredibly stressed.

“Dean’s saying some very concerning things regarding Chiaroscuro,” he says quietly as he rummages through the medicine cabinet.

Sam practically yelps, “Like?”

“Something about losing the restaurant because he can’t afford it. I can’t really tell you much more than that. He’s not very coherent when inebriated,” Castiel tells him, holding up the bottle of ibuprofen in triumph when he finds it.

He hears Sam suck in a breath on the line. “That’s…..worrying, to say the very least.”

“Oh!” Castiel remembers as heads back into the living room, “He also called someone a ‘crooked lawyer’ or something. I really don’t know what he’s talking about, but I think you do.”

“I do,” Sam hisses, “And I’ll call the building owner tomorrow morning, or if I get a break during the shift. I really have to get back to work now, but thank you for telling me. I’ll swing by in the morning.”

Castiel replies, “Of course,” before ending the call when the dial tone starts playing and hands Dean both the glass of water and pills.

“Dean?” he asks hesitantly as the man gulps down the medicine and water, “Is everything OK?”

Dean starts laughing before wincing at the feeling and drops his head into his hands, mumbling, “Hurts.”

“I know, baby,” Castiel soothes, rubbing small circles on Dean’s shoulder with his thumb. His mind hurtles to a stop at the endearment, but he muscles past it, “We should probably get you to bed. We can talk more in the morning.”

Dean nods shakily in agreement and gets to his feet unsteadily.

“Woah there, cowboy,” Castiel almost chuckles, “Let’s take this slow.” Dean blushes a little in embarrassment, and Cas honest to gosh has to bite his lip to keep from cooing at the adorableness that is drunk Dean.

Slowly but surely they make their way into the bedroom, which is far neater and barer than Castiel could’ve imagined. It’s almost sad. There’s only one picture on Dean’s bedside table, and not much else in the room besides a stack of well-loved books.

_This may be Dean’s house_ , Castiel thinks, _But this is no home._ Like he can really talk.

Castiel lowers Dean onto the bed and takes off his boots and shirts, pushing the fact that he’s finally, _finally_ undressing Dean on his bed out of his head. Gently and quietly as possible, Castiel maneuvers Dean underneath the covers.

As he turns to leave, Dean’s fingers wrap around his wrist, and the man mutters, half-asleep, “Stay.”

And fuck, Castiel is only human.

How the hell could he turn down a request, though, admittedly, a drunken request, for him to stay the night? How could he possibly say no?

So Castiel tugs off his shoes, trenchcoat, suit jacket, tie, and crisp white shirt until he’s bare from the waist up. He sidles in besides Dean, who quickly shift towards Castiel’s warmth, molding his back against Castiel’s front. Thankfully, Castiel is much too tired for his body to be very responding, or this situation would be much more uncomfortable. Castiel tries to ignore the fact that he’ll probably regret this in the morning.

That is, until Dean drunkenly mumbles, “G’night, angel.”

Cas protectively nuzzles his face in Dean’s hair and tightens his arms around Dean’s waist. “Goodnight, Dean,” he whispers into the pitch black, certain that Dean won’t even remember this exchange in the morning. Castiel realizes that this might be the first and last time he ever gets to spend a night in Dean’s bed.

He goes to bed with a heavy conscious and a heavier heart.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_When your tears roll down your pillow like a river/ I’ll be there for you_

The first thing Dean wearily registers is the bright morning sun streaming through a gap in his curtains. It’s blinding to his sleep-heavy eyes, and he blearily snuggles closer to his pillow to block out the light. His pillow is harder and much more warm than usual, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care. Instead, he snuggles closer into the warmth and falls back asleep, barely registering the sensation of arms tightening around his waist before he slips back under.

When he wakes up the next time, it’s with a pounding headache. He groans to himself as he attempts to sit up in bed, nearly falling off the edge as a result. As he sits on the ledge, he rubs his eyes and notes that he feels more rested than he has in months. In fact, he can actually feel the lack of under-eye bags.

He leans over the edge of the bed, his head pounding, and hears someone cooking in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging, ones he’s not even sure he himself has used. He briefly wonders who the hell is in his apartment and a strike of fear runs through him as he doesn’t remember having ever given anyone but Sam the key to his apartment. Sam is working an early shift at Chiaroscuro this morning.

Quickly, he gets to his feel, ignoring what feels like shrapnel embedding itself in his skull and heads to the door, peering around the edge and into the hallway. As he gets closer down the hall to the kitchen, hears someone vaguely humming _Night Moves_. It sounds masculine; a voice he’s heard before.

Dean’s brain catches up to his body and he remembers last night. He remembers getting the bad news from Crowley, going out into the middle of Perdition even amongst the curious stares of his customers, ripping off his chef’s uniform and throwing it absentmindedly behind him. He hopes one of his employees had the good sense to clean it up, not that they should have to. Dean remembers heading up to the bar towards Ruby, hoping to get trashed. He remembers exactly when his cup of whiskey began tasting like something else but was too far gone to question at the time. He sends a silent word of thanks to the bartender, who no doubt made the wise decision to switch him from whiskey to something less strong to keep his liver from failing the next day.

Dean remembers Sam coming over to make sure he was OK, shaking him, trying to lift his head up. He remembers remaining absolutely quiet, hearing his brother run frantically up to Salvation, listening as he came barreling back down moments later with someone in tow, but by that point, he was unconscious from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. He assumes that at some point they managed to get him so someone’s car and drive him home, but only one person besides Sam even knows where Dean’s apartment is, and Sam was working the late shift last night, so it couldn’t have been him.

Castiel.

And then he remembers the rest of the night: sitting on the couch, basically telling Castiel pretty much all of what’s been bothering him. Asking him to stay.

Dean feels his face burn hotter than the sun at the realization, and wishes that his drunken self wasn’t so clingy or cuddly. God, what a fool he’s made of himself. If Castiel wants him now, it’d be a goddamn miracle. A wave of defeat rushes through him when he realizes that he won’t even have the chance to find out if that’s really the case.

Reluctantly, head down, he heads into the kitchen, coming up behind Castiel who’s frying bacon in a pan that frankly smells better than anything Dean’s ever smelled in his life. The scene looks vaguely domestic, and Dean can’t help but long for it to be real. Castiel stands in only his bottoms, socks off, chest bare, as he hums along to the song playing through his phone’s speakers. His hips swivel a bit as he shakes the pan back and forth to move the bacon around in the pan.

“ _Working on the night moves_ ,” he sings to himself, completely unaware of Dean’s presence behind him.

After a minute or two of watching, and admittedly, wishing, Dean awkwardly clears his throat and Castiel abruptly snaps his head up, shuts off the music that’s been playing on his phone, and whips his head around to look where Dean’s standing in the doorway.

He awkwardly gestures to the stove. “I just, you seemed really out of it, and I know you have a really bad hangover, so I thought I’d make you breakfast, and-,”

Dean cuts him off. “No, no I get it. That’s fine, that’s…great. Thank you.”

Castiel nods, a pint tint high on his cheekbones as he turns back to the stove to get working again.

Moments later, he turns back around and surveys Dean once, his nose twitching in the air as he smells something. “Uhm…” he starts from across the room, “I can smell you from here. It’d probably be a good idea if you took a shower; you didn’t exactly have the easiest night.”

Dean blushes even brighter, if possible, and clears his throat again, stammering, “Yeah, yeah- no you’re right, that sounds like a good idea. Um, why don’t- ah, I’ll just… go do that.”

Castiel chuckles a little and waves him off. _Goddamnit,_ Dean thinks as he turns on his heel and rushes out of the room and down the hallway as fast as he can, _Great way to be awkward, that always reels them in_. He undresses and tries not to address the fact that the man of his dreams is literally standing in his kitchen fewer than fifty feet away from him.

Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, he takes a hot shower, scrubs himself thoroughly and tries to ignore the stabbing, needle-like pains that he feels on his skull as the water hits him. Admittedly, his shower takes a litter longer than usual due to…bodily reasons and the fact that he can’t seem to stop seeing those azure blue eyes in front of his vision.

Dean gets out, dries himself in a fluffy towel, and heads back towards his room, towel wrapped around his waist to change. Of course, because Dean’s _always_ the butt of the gods’ jokes, Castiel comes around the corner at that exact moment, presumably heading back into the bedroom himself. He catches Dean’s eye, and then then they slowly make their way down Dean’s body.

As if realizing what he’s doing, Castiel quickly averts his eyes and jabs his thumb towards the room, saying, “I’m just gonna go get my shirt.” Dean nods and waves him on ahead, covering his face in his hands once he’s out of sight.

After taking a couple of steadying breaths, he heads into the bedroom after Castiel. He sees the man struggling with his pressed white, and now, frankly, completely wrinkled shirt. He says awkwardly, “You can borrow one of my T-shirts if you want.”

Castiel turns around to look at him, mouth slightly agape as he takes in the scene.

“It’ll be no trouble,” Dean rushes to continue, “After everything you did for me last night, I figure it’s the least I can do.”

Castiel agrees, unsure as to whether or not Dean actually means it for some reason, and after Dean heads back to his dresser and gets Castiel his old, faded, favorite ACDC t-shirt, Castiel immediately pulls it on, covering his chest. Dean almost cries at the loss of the sight. Castiel mumbles out a gruff ‘thank you’ before high-tailing it out of the room, heading back into the kitchen to finish the greasy breakfast he’s making to cure Dean’s hangover.

Dean closes the door behind him and locks it for good measure. If Castiel walked in on him naked, damn, he’s not sure he’d be able to contain himself. He pulls on a pair of soft sweatpants and a faded Metallica shirt before drying his hair and heading back into the kitchen to join Castiel.

He enters the room just as Castiel is finishing scrambling the eggs, hops up on the counter, and watches him. “Kind of fun to see someone else cook for once,” he laughs.

Castiel chuckles a bit in response. “I imagine it can’t be easy letting someone else cook for you, seeing as you’re a professional chef and all.”

“Oh! No, no that’s not what I meant,” Dean rushes to assure him for some reason, “It’s just that it’s weird to see someone get so much use out of my kitchen.”

Castiel looks at him through the side of his eye as he pours the eggs into the pan. “You mean you don’t use this stuff often?”

Dean shakes his head, smiling faintly. “I can’t say I’m home enough often enough to justify cooking in here. And there’s something depressing about cooking a really nice meal for only one person.”

Castiel hums thoughtfully, turning the statement over in his head. “I suppose, though, couldn’t you just invite more people over?”

Dean looks at the ground, saying, “I don’t have many friends.” Castiel scoffs. “What?” he narrows his eyes.

“Nothing,” Castiel says, “I just feel like you have a lot of friends you’ve unaware you even have.”

Dean gets off the counter and crosses his arms defensively. “What are you even talking about?” he demands.

“All of the workers at your restaurant, they care about you Dean,” he states as he moves the eggs around the pan, avoiding eye contact. “More people care about you than you realize, and have been really worried about you and your recent behavior.”

Dean looks at Castiel for a second. “Are you sur we’re talking about my kitchen habits anymore?”

Cas stops his movements and puts the eggs on two plates. “You’re right, Dean,” he runs a hand down his face, suddenly weary, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Dean feels his heartrate jack up a couple notches. Before Castiel can open his mouth again, the front door bangs open, and Sam comes barreling in.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” Sam yells as he rushes into the kitchen, stopping inches in front of Dean and poking his chest aggressively with his finger.

“Woah, calm down there Sammy.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down when you’ve been hiding the fact that our restaurant has been going under for over a month!” Sam exclaims.

Dean looks at Castiel in shock, a mixture of betrayal and confusion evident on his face. “You told him?”

Cas throws his arms up in exasperation. “What the hell was I supposed to do? The shop is just as much a part of Sam’s life as it is of yours, Dean. Somebody had to do it, and it was clear it wasn’t going to be you. He has a right to know what’s going on.”

Dean huffs, unwilling to admit that Castiel is right, and crosses his arms again, leaning against the counter and looking up at his younger brother.

“If you just _told_ me Dean,” Sam grits out, slamming his hand down, “We could’ve worked something out, figured out what to do. We could’ve split the problem between us without you shouldering the entire burden like you usually do!” Sam’s face begins to get cherry red, the way it always does when he gets upset.

Castiel, sensing a larger is coming, takes the plates and heads to the table where he sets them down.

“I can’t see why I need to involve you in things like this,” Dean says back to his brother, “Chiaroscuro isn’t yours to take care of. It’s my responsibility.”

Sam looks flabbergasted. “Dean, you’re _my_ responsibility, and seeing you so torn up about something and not knowing what it is, knowing you’re not going to let me in tears me apart! I can’t do anything to help you if you don’t tell me what the hell is wrong. So tell me what the fuck is going on and _let me help you_.”

Dean looks at the ground. “I-,”

“I swear to god if you brush this issue off again I will literally tear your balls off and throw them down the garbage disposal before you even get a chance to have fun with that man sitting at your table,” Sam threatens.

The older Winchester almost chokes, but then looks out the window, considering. “Fine.” He looks back at the kitchen table where Castiel is sitting, awkwardly looking through his phone. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Together they head into the dining room. As they head out of the kitchen, Castiel puts his phone back into his pocket, sensing that a discussion is coming. The two Winchester brothers sit down at the table, Dean next to Castiel for reasons he’s not willing to address at the moment, and Sam across from both of them.

Dean clears his throat. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How about at the beginning?” Sam suggests.

Dean nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s probably smart.” Castiel grins a little bit and urges him on, plates of food forgotten. “So, uh, it was a couple of months ago. I noticed this strange lawyer guy, Azazel, loitering outside the restaurant. He had a clipboard in his hand and it looked like he was taking notes or something.”

Sam pipes up. “I remember you talking to me about this. I was supposed to call the building owner about him.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, but I never told you what happened next. You got me connected with Crowley, and I found out that he’s looking to sell the building.”

Sam sucks in a breath of air. “Sell the building? But we’re renting it, what the hell is he thinking?”

“He’s thinking that you’re a new business owner that he can take advantage of by forcing into a position that you can’t possibly get out of,” Castiel adds from where he sits, “He knew it was impossible for you to pay off the money that it’d require for you to buy the building, but he did it anyway, figuring that if you cave in, he’d offer you some sort of a deal. I don’t know, maybe stating that you’d continue to make payments towards the million he was asking of you.”

“ _One million?!_ ” Sam shouts, “Holy crap, Dean, how did you even think that-,”

“Anyway,” Castiel continues overs Sam’s interjection, “He figures that even if he got you in a deal for one million with gradual interest, you’d be under his thumb for the rest of your life. Either way, he wins. If you pay him the million, hey, that’s a lot of money for him, and if you can’t, he either gets the building or locks you in a deal you can’t ever get out of.”

Dean turns and looks at Castiel incredulously. “How do you…?”

“A couple members of my extended family are lawyers,” Castiel offers as an explanation, “I was also interested in law before I decided to switch fields.”

Dean nods as if this makes sense, and Sam laughs a little from where he sits. “Figures,” he mutters under his breath.

“So, then what?” Sam asks after a moment.

“Well, he asked me for a million dollars, and I admit I was foolish, but I couldn’t even begin to think about losing the shop, not after I’ve come so far,” Sam nods in understanding, “So I took another job at the garage and a couple more odd jobs here and there to help pay for it, but I’m not even close. Even with all of the money I’m giving you to pay for college, I would never have been able to pay it all by the deadline.”

“And when is the deadline?” Sam asks.

“In less than a five days.”

“Five days, holy shit. No wonder you were getting so drunk.”

“That’s not the actual reason,” Dean mutters quietly. Both Castiel and Sam turn to look at him.

“What?”

Dean continues on. “Crowley raised it. From one million to two. So yeah, pretty big issue.”

The whole table goes quiet. “What are we gonna do?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and his thumb. “I honestly have no goddamn idea. I’ve been trying to juggle this, but I didn’t really want to tell you this because a part of me knew from the beginning that there was nothing _to_ do, a logical part that told me I’d never be able to pay the money no matter what I did. I didn’t think it was necessary to stress you out about the shop’s fate, what with you being college and just trying to get by, you know?”

“You’re trying to survive too, Dean,” Sam says, “And I understand why you did it, I really do, but that doesn’t mean I’m OK with the way you went about it.”

Dean agrees. “I understand, I was being a jerk.”

“Dean,” Castiel says firmly, “We’re _not_ giving up. There has to be something we’re missing here.”

“Like what?” Sam inquires from across the table

Castiel fixes him with a stare. “I’m not sure yet. What’re we missing?”

They all go silent for a moment, collecting themselves. Something tugs at the back of Dean’s mind. “What did Azazel even want?” he asks Sam, who looks back at him curiously.

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean, when we asked Azazel for Crowley’s number, remember?” Dean can feel himself getting excited for some reason, but he can’t put his finger on it. “There’s gotta be something there. Why would a lawyer working for Crowley not have his boss’s number? That’s shit you can find on a damn business card.” Sam nods, not quite sure where his brother’s going with this. Castiel is unusually quiet. “We’re missing something here, something big. Why would he not have it?”

“Because he’s not working for Crowley,” Castiel says, “It has to be that. He wouldn’t have the number to a place he’s not working at.”

Sam asks from across the table, “So then who’s he employed by?”

Dean sucks in a breath. “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling we’re right. The sooner we figure that out, the sooner we can piece together we can figure out what the hell is going on.”

The younger Winchester agrees, looking down at his watch. “Awh shit, my breaks over. I have to head back.”

Dean nods. “I can-,”

“Don’t you even suggest going into work today,” Sam levels him with a glare, “If I even see one _hair_ of you at Chiaroscuro today, I’m throwing you from the tallest building I can find.”

“I thought you were cutting off my balls?”

Sam gets up from his chair. “Yeah, that too. I’ll kill you and torture you.”

“You can’t torture someone after you kill them,” Castiel throws out, “The worst you can do is desecrate their body.” The two Winchester brothers look at him strangely. “I’m just being honest.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Okaaaaay, well I’m leaving now. I’ll call around, see if I can sort things out. If I find anything, I’ll give you a call.”

“Thank you for doing this for me,” Dean says, also standing.

“For us.” Sam looks his directly in the eye. “This is for us, Dean.”

For some reason, Dean’s eyes start to prickle, and he has to blink furiously to keep his tears at bay. “Yeah,” he rasps out, “Of course.” Sam nearly crushes his bones in a hug and mock salutes at Castiel. Before he leaves, he turns to Castiel and smirks, “Nice shirt.”

Castiel blushes, and Dean sits back down. The two look at their now-cold plates of food. “Well, I have to say, I had no idea things were so…”

“What? Impossible, stupid, absolutely-,”

“Complex,” Castiel supplies, “I was going to say complex.”

Dean looks down at the wood table, suddenly not able to meet his eyes. He can feel Castiel looking at him. A warm hand suddenly covers his own, and Dean tries not to jump out of his skin. Cas’s hand is soft but calloused from hard work. He looks up and sees azure blue eyes staring at him.

“Dean, if we can’t figure out a solution in time, I can… Well, I’m not exactly short on money, and I can…”

Dean rises from his chair so quickly that it goes toppling backwards. “So you can what?” he growls, suddenly angry, “Pay this all away? Spend two million on some guy you barely know?”

Castiel gets up as well, anger storming in his eyes. “That’s _not_ what I was implying. And you’re not just some guy! Of course I’d help you, you’re my friend!”

_Friend_. The word cuts deeper than Dean can explain. “Right, so you’ll just throw two million away on any one of your friends, then?” He can see Castiel beginning to breathe heavily.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what _did_ you mean?!” Dean shouts at him, “I don’t want your pity, Castiel, and if this is just you feeling bad for me, then-,”

“That’s NOT what this is about!” Castiel roars. Dean is momentarily taken back. He’s never even imagined Castiel raising his voice, except for one day dream of his that required far less clothing.

“Then tell me what this is about, why you feel it necessary to blow what I can’t even make in a handful of years on some stranger in a bar.”

“Because I care about you,” Castiel shouts.

“Why?” Dean retorts, feeling like he’s going crazy, “Why would you care? My own father didn’t even care this much, so why do you?”

Castiel’s eyes grow infinitely sad. “Because I love you, Dean,” he says softly.

Dean repeats back, “In love with me?” He’s not utterly fucking confused.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been gone on you since the time you spilled wine on me. It’s obvious to literally everyone but you. I thought you knew how I felt and just didn’t care.”

“Knew how you felt, Castiel, what’re you _doing_? I can’t do this with you,” he chokes out, looking at the man before him.

Cas looks at Dean with an unreadable expression. “My mistake,” he says, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Dean can practically see the self-deprecation ebbing in into Cas’s eyes.

“No, that’s not it, you’re perfect and, trust me, I _want_ to be with you, but I can’t. I won’t be…I won’t help you cheat on your boyfriend,” Dean finally spits out.

“My boyfriend?” Castiel intones, confusion dawning on his face.

Suddenly Dean feels incredibly stupid. “Yeah…your boyfriend.”

“But Dean,” Castiel takes a step towards him. “I don’t _have_ a boyfriend.”

“But you ate with him in Salvation, I just… I don’t know.”

“Oh my god,” Castiel bursts our laughing, “Do you mean _Balthazar_? He’s my best friend! Man, why the hell would I date him of all people?”

Dean’s face turns red. “I don’t know! The scene was really romantic, and people don’t usually go to Salvation with another person unless it’s a date!”

Castiel is laughing so hard his shoulders begin to shake and he grabs the wooden table to steady himself. Dean throws up his hands, exasperated. “You have to admit, you didn’t exactly make it clear you were only friends! You were sitting way too close together.”

“I was showing him you,” Castiel wipes away his tears, “I was showing him the incredible chef with the best ass I’ve seen in years who doesn’t even seem to notice my attraction to him!”

Dean laughs himself. “I guess it was pretty ridiculous. We could’ve avoided this whole thing.”

Castiel comes down from him high. “I know, we could’ve been-,”

“Fucking?” Dean supplies happily.

“I was going to say dating, but that works too.” Castiel snorts.

Dean nods sheepishly, scratching behind his ear. “Of course,” he amends nervously.

For a moment, the two men just smile at each other before Castiel takes Dean’s hand. “Does this mean you’ll go out with me?”

“God,” Dean exclaims, “Could I have been any more honest about my intentions?”

“Hey, hey, I just want to be sure,” Cas grins up at him slyly, “What with all the _confusion_ going around.”

“Shut up,” Dean mumbles as he moves in for a kiss. Their first kiss, he realizes happily, the first of many, hopefully. Castiel’s chapped lips are softer than they look and he quickly finds himself getting lost in the feeling of Castiel’s hands tangled in his hair, snaking around his waist, and suddenly the back of Dean’s knees are against the tabletop. He jumps up onto it eagerly in one smooth motion and winds his legs around Cas’s waist, pulling his closer. They break apart for a breath and come back together again.

“I can’t believe we didn’t resolve this sooner,” Castiel murmurs in between kisses.

“Yeah,” Dean replies breathlessly.

Castiel pulls back after a moment, lips red and swollen, looking utterly debauched. “So. Bedroom?” he asks hopefully.

“Bedroom.” Dean smiles in agreement, looking down at the man who suddenly came into his life and changed it irreversibly for the better, “Of course.”

With that, Cas lets out a growl that is _definitely_ going into Dean’s spank-bank for later, and hoists Dean off the table, arms under his thighs, with surprising strength. Dean lets out a very manly yelp that he’ll later deny to the death, but tightens his legs around Castiel’s waist and locks his arms behind his head.

Castiel walks them towards the bedroom, and Dean can’t help but think that this is a start to a _very_ beautiful relationship.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_There’s nothing like your smile/ sort of subtle, and perfect, and real/ you never knew how wonderful that smile could make somebody feel_

The two men lie in each other’s arms until the late midmorning. Thankfully, by that point, Dean’s hangover is long gone. He feels at ease, comfortable in his own skin for the first time in a long time, and strangely sated. Though that last one probably has more to do with the man lying naked next to him. Dean grins as he watches Castiel’s chest rise and fall. If anyone had told him a couple of days ago that this would become his life: lying in bed with the man of his freaking dreams for hours, intermittently sleeping and talking about silly things, Dean honestly would’ve laughed in their face and then ran away and sulked over what wasn’t possible.

Castiel opens one eye and looks over at Dean. “I thought you said it was creepy to stare.”

Dean laughs a little and scoots closer to Cas, muttering, “Yeah, but that’s only when you do it.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the staring when I was on top of you earlier,” Castiel dead-ass _smirks_ , the asshole.

“Oh, God,” Dean groans, burying his face in the covers, “I retract my earlier agreement to date. This is going to be awful.” Castiel laughs at Dean’s suffering. Dean pouts, sticking out his lower lip in protest. Cas only hums thoughtfully and bends his neck down to place a kiss on Dean’s forehead, and suddenly Dean can’t remember why he was upset.

Suddenly Castiel’s phone rings, and Asia blares out of the speakers. “Oh man, I hate this song,” Dean complains, trying to tug the other man back by the waist as he props himself up on his elbow and answers the phone, grinning down at Dean.

After a moment, Dean impatiently asks, “Who is it?” He may be sort of indignant that someone dared to interrupt their cuddling.

“Sam,” Castiel answers, and Dean grabs at the phone, turning it on speaker mode, cutting off what Sam was saying.

“Mind sharing that with the class, Sammy?” Dean teases.

His younger brother sighs heavily, like he’s beyond done with his brother. “Yeah, whatever Dean. You might want to put on some pants for this though,” he drawls.

‘Don’t you dare’, Dean mouths to Castiel when he looks like he’s considering the idea. This is the first time he’s managed to undress Cas, and he’s going to make it last for as long as is humanly possible. He settles for asking, “How did you…”

Sam scoffs. “My Sammy-senses were tingling.” Castiel looks confused for a moment, and Dean decides that it’s both completely adorable and a little sad, and makes a mental note to rent the movie for Castiel. “Anyway,” Sam continues, “I found out who Azazel works for.”

Dean sits up so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. “What? How?”

“I’ve always been good at research, you know that,” Sam sounds _wayyy_ too proud of himself for Dean’s liking.

“Still,” Castiel considers, “That was remarkably quick. And I thought you were working?”

Sam hesitates, and Dean smiles in triumph, pecking Cas on the cheek. “Well, I may have… enlisted Charlie and Garth to help. But that’s not important!” he quickly rushes on, “The guy’s name is Alastair.”

“Alastair?” Castiel repeats, brow furrowed, “Why does that sound oddly familiar?”

“Because he was head of one of the biggest law firms in New York city before he got fired for embezzlement,” Sam replies, “But get this, the guy also has a criminal record longer than the freaking _Odyssey_. He has plenty of small misdemeanors, embezzlement, and even an attempted murder on here.”

Den whistles under his breath. “From embezzlement to murder. That’s a pretty big jump, Sammy.”

“I know, and I still haven’t exactly figured out what’s going on with that, but I have Garth on it. Anyway, this guy is employing Azazel and even a couple more lawyers who don’t show up on any other law firms or have any law background at all,” Sam tells them, “So they’re not even actual lawyers.”

Castiel looks at Dean, “How did you even get involved with this man?”

“It was at the building owner’s recommendation,” Dean states, and then it dawns on him. “I’m betting this guy is working with Crowley.”

“Which explains why Azazel didn’t have Crowley’s number,” Sam says.

“Then there has to be a link between Crowley and Alastair that we’re not seeing.” Dean is fidgeting nervously, and Cas shoots him a sympathetic look.

Castiel suddenly looks as though he’s had an epiphany. “Has Alastair ever served time in prison?”

The line goes quiet for a moment, as Sam presumably checks. Dean offers Castiel a half-hearted smile, though his palms are clammy and his heart is racing faster than a formula one racecar. “Oh my god,” Sam breathes, “He hasn’t.”

“Which begs the question: why not?” Castiel makes a frantic gesture to no one in particular, “I’ll bet you anything its Crowley.”

“You think they’re working together?” Dean can feel his eyes widening.

“That has to be it,” Sam nearly shouts through the receiver in excitement, “But I bet it’s not exactly a kosher relationship. Alastair probably needs Crowley for some reason, and Crowley holds his rap sheet over his head for insurance.”

“But why would Alastair need Crowley to do anything for him?” Dean asks.

“Alastair’s reputation took a huge hit after the embezzlement scandal. He lost his practice, his wife, and about ninety percent of his wealth,” Castiel ticks off on his fingers.

Dean snaps his fingers. “Since he can’t practice, he’s out of work. He needs someone with a firm who’d be willing to play dirty.”

Castiel nods enthusiastically in agreement, “And Crowley’s proven himself to be more than capable of that.” Everyone is quiet for a moment, and Dean’s mind races with the fact that his business might actually be alright, if they can prove this.

Suddenly, he realizes, “Do we have any proof of this?”

Sam clears his throat for a minute. “Not yet, but I’ll bet his ‘client list’ is on his computer.”

Dean feels his grin forming. “Too bad we don’t know anyone who can remotely hack into someone’s laptop.”

“Yeah, too bad,” he can hear Sam’s responding smile, “I’ll go tell Charlie how unfortunate that is.”

“Why don’t you also add how unfortunate it is that I have a limited edition Hermione pop-figure just lying around?” Dean laughs. Castiel appears to be following their conversation, if the hand pressed over his mouth to hold back his laughter is any indication.

Sam flat out laughs, “Of course. I’ll call you back once I tell her.” With that, the line goes dead.

Dean turns to Castiel, happiness painted across his features. “This is unbelievable,” he says in wonder.

Castiel simply pulls Dean onto him and kisses him silly. “Good things do happen, you know.”

Dean gazes down at the man under him and replies, “I know.”

Cas kisses him fiercely in reply and rolls them over so he’s leaning over Dean, who definitely did _not_ squeak during the maneuver. The man kisses his way down Dean’s neck, who throws his head back in a response. Just as Dean feels himself start to get into it again, Castiel’s phone rings again.

“I never want to hear that song again I my fucking life,” Dean growls as he picks up the phone and angrily answers, “Why are you such a goddamn cockblock, Sammy?”

“Classy, Dean,” Sam snorts, “Keep it in your pants for like half a second. Charlie found it.”

“That quickly?” Castiel asks from where he’s still hovering over Dean.

Sam clears his throat, “Yeah. I’m kind of terrified of her now. Apparently she wasn’t kidding about changing her identity earlier.”

“Well?” Dean asks, still impatient. Castiel kissing down his chest is not exactly helping either.

“She found it. Everything. Records of unofficial clients, the buildings foreclosed because of it, and significant payments to a certain Chief Lucifer of the NYPD. We did it,” Sam says, “We go the bastard.”

Dean whoops and Castiel laughs from where he’s stopped on Dean’s body. “This is amazing, Sammy!”

“I know, I know, and you can repay me by waiting until I’m off the line before you screw again,” Sam throws out.

Dean smirks and lets out the most obscene moan he can manage, and Castiel’s pupils blow wide. It works though, and wide a ‘fuck off, Dean’, Sam hangs up the phone. Dean throws the phone somewhere on the floor and grins up at Castiel. “Well I don’t know about you, but I could go for some celebratory sex.”

Castiel pounces on him.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_I used to say I wanna die before I’m old/ but because of you I might think twice_

After Castiel had managed to talk Dean into sweats, Dean sits on the kitchen counter, watching as the man leaves in his clothes, Dean shivers at the thought, and heads to his car, still parked in the driveway of Dean’s apartment lot. He’d manage to persuade Castiel to spend the day with him, to make up for lost time or something, so Cas was on his way home to pick up his laptop. He’d insisted that if he was going to stay the day, he was going to be productive, despite Dean’s protests that they _would_ be productive, just in other ways.

Dean slides off the counter after Castiel’s little Prius, which he’s planning on teasing the man relentlessly for now that they’re together, is out of site. He stands there for a moment, fidgeting restlessly. Dean has a lot of excited, and slightly nervous, energy and no idea what to do with it. So he does what he always does when he’s nervous: he cleans the shit out of his apartment. He cleans the kitchen, the bathrooms, and gets started on the living room. And that’s how Castiel finds him: sweaty from exertion, half naked, and bent over the coffee table, trying to clean underneath it without turning it upside-down.

“You little tease,” Castiel says from the doorway, kicking it shut behind him. Dean looks over his shoulder at him and grins. Cas looks absolutely adorable. He’s carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder and has two coffees in hand. He even has glasses on. It’s not a look Dean would’ve imagined on Castiel, but he likes it more than he probably should.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Cas,” Dean laughs while he stands, wiping his hands on his grey sweats. He knows baiting Castiel was a mistake a moment after the taunt leaves his mouth.

Castiel hums and pecks Dean sweetly on the mouth. “Didn’t hear you complaining this morning.”

Dean huffs and crosses his arms, determined not to lose this verbal match. “That’s because I’m more of the ‘suffer in silence’ type.”

Cas nods before taking a casual sip of his coffee and stating, “Actually, if I remember correctly, you’re actually _very_ vocal.” And shit, Dean knows he’s just lost.

“Whatever,” he says petulantly. He snatches his coffee from Cas’s hand and takes a sip, groaning at the taste. He’s ninety percent sure he’s never told Cas his coffee order, and it’s almost scary how well the man knows him, having only met a month or so ago.

“Can I use your shower?” Castiel asks suddenly.

Dean looks over the rim of his coffee cup and raises an eyebrow. “Cas, I know you’re crazy about me, but try to have a little restraint.”

“That’s not-,” Cas turns a cute shade of pink, “I didn’t mean it that way. But I’ll remember that for future use.”

Oh yeah, Dean definitely regrets taking a shower this morning. If he’d known that Cas was down for that then he’d have waited. Heck, if he had known Cas was down for _him,_ he’d have jumped him months ago. Sighing at the wasted opportunity, Dean nods. “I’m sure you know where the bathroom is, creep.”

“Thanks, beautiful,” Cas pecks Dean again and leaves towards the bathroom, setting his laptop bag down on the table on the way.

Dean sits there, blushing from head to toe at the endearment. Being with Cas was literally going to kill him. Alone and bored again, Dean decides to snoop through his boyfriend’s things. He ends up going for the laptop, and frowns when it’s password protected. He remembers that Gabriel frequently gets ahold of Castiel’s things, and types: _Gabriel is amazing_.

The computer opens.

Dean rolls his eyes and starts snooping through the folders. One in particular catches his eye. There are multiple little pages coming out of the little, pixelated manila folder. “Jackpot,” he mumbles to himself. It’s simply titled _Reviews_. Dean scrolls down the list of restaurant ratings, which are alphabetized by name because this is Cas, and finds himself staring at the one labeled _Chiaroscuro_. He’s suddenly very anxious. Before he clicks the link, he looks over his shoulders as though afraid someone will catch him in the act. Suddenly desperate to read, he clicks the link and the page opens in Microsoft word. Dean swallows hard and starts reading.

Two sentences in and it’s clear that this is a raving review of his shop. Dean grins to himself, suddenly wondering why he was even worrying in the first place. He had always known that Castiel had great taste, not to sound conceited, so it’s no wonder he like Chiaroscuro. Still, it puts Dean at ease enough for him to close the word document without finishing the article. He can wait until it gets published in three days or so.

He’s actually about to close the file folder itself, when he notes another review title _Chiaroscuro_ right under the last one he read. Curious, he opens the file and breaks into a shit-eating grin.

…

Castiel steps out of the restroom, completely clothed. He knows immediately that something’s wrong. He bites his nails as he heads into the kitchen, where he finds Dean sitting on the kitchen table with his laptop on his knees.

“What’re you doing?” he asks tentatively.

“Oh, you mean me, your _absolutely gorgeous man_?” Dean smirks. He looks bright and happy and… way to smug. Castiel tries to piece together what’s going on.

He shrugs. “Can’t disagree with that,” Cas says as he walks closer to Dean, who hops off the table and rushes away from Castiel with the laptop still in hand.

“You mean you can’t disagree with someone with _incredibly bright peridot green eyes that sparkle like the ocean_?” Dean recites, still smiling. The wording sounds vaguely familiar, but Castiel can’t quite place where he’s heard it from. But then Dean continues, “Or with the man with _the best ass I’ve seen in years_?” He wiggles his hips a little for emphasis.

Castiel groans when he remembers. He knew he’d regret saving the first review. “Deannn,” he whines, trying to grab the computer out of his hands.

Dean laughs hysterically. “Jeeze Cas, you were _so_ in love with me right from the start!” Dean laughs for a moment while Cas stands in shock at the wording. Dean seems to realize what he’s said, because after a moment, he stutters, “Oh, I didn’t mean…uhm…I didn’t, er-,”

Before Dean can reply, his phone rings, and he picks it up quickly, setting the computer down. “Yeah, Sam?” Dean asks, “Oh, yeah, no problem. We’ll be there soon.” He hangs up the phone and looks awkwardly at Castiel. “That was, um, Sam. He’s sending Crowley’s address. The police are on their way over, and Sam figured we’d want to be there when he got arrested.”

Castiel wants to grab Dean and tell him that he was right, that he _does_ love him, but it’s too late. The moment’s passed, so instead, he nods his head, tugs on his shoes, and waits while Dean finishes getting dressed. Together, they go downstairs and climb into Castiel’s Prius.

…

The car ride over to Crowley’s firm is awkward, to say the least. Dean wants to bang his head against the window until the shatter-proof glass breaks into a million pieces. He’d _just_ gotten ahold of Castiel, and then he goes and word vomits out his feelings. _Typical_ , he thinks. Once or twice, Cas tries to talk to him, but Dean’s not in a good mood anymore, and doesn’t really feel like talking.

When they arrive at the law office, it’s almost a relief to be out of the car’s stifling atmosphere. There are already police cars lining the entrance of the firm, the sunset casting them in a hazy glow. Castiel and Dean wait anxiously for a few tense moments before Crowley is brought out of the building, handcuffed and hissing at the police officers.

“Take your bloody hands off me!” they hear him yell from where he’s being shoved towards a car.

“Hey Crowley!” Dean shouts, hands cupped around his mouth, “Does this I mean I keep my restaurant, or are you expecting payment from prison?”

Crowley looks murderous, but gets shoved into the cab of a police car before he can retort. Suddenly, a young, blonde police officer walks over to Dean. “Are you Dean Winchester?” he asks. When Dean nods, the man continues, “I’m Michael, lead officer during this investigation.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be taking lead?” Dean mouths off before he can stop himself.

Michael only laughs whole-heartedly. “Aren’t you a little young to be owning one of New York’s most popular restaurants?”

“Touché,” Dean admits, “So, what’s going on?”

“Nothing much,” Michael states, “We’ll be arresting Alastair and all of his workers once we can track him down. I just came over to tell you that all of Crowley’s clients will be switched over to Naomi next week.”

Dean nods. This is all stuff he could’ve figured out on his own. “Is there anything else, or..?” he inquires.

“I was just wondering,” Michael scratches his head, “If you were busy tonight?” Dean feels Castiel tense from next to him, and the man protectively reaches down and grabs Dean’s hand. Michael sees the movement. “Oh!” he exclaims, “Sorry to presume, I just. Er, I’m gonna…go now.”

“That would be smart,” Castiel growls. Michael hurries away, but turns back once to look at Dean, as if committing him to memory. Dean shudders. While he’s watching, Cas frowns and kisses Dean fiercely.

Once Michael is out of sight, Dean pulls back and smiles, “Jealous, are we?”

Castiel pouts. “You’re mine, Dean.” His heart skips at the admission. As Dean opens his mouth, Castiel’s phone pings.

“If that’s fucking Sam we are going to have _words_ later about when and when not to interrupt,” Dean sighs.

Castiel only laughs and reads Dean the text. “They’re having a celebration for you at Chiaroscuro tonight.” Castiel smiles and gestures to the car. “Shall we?”

Dean grins at the man once more, following him over the Prius, and together they head out to celebrate.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Sickeningly sweet like honey/ don’t need money/ all I need is you_

The car ride to Chiaroscuro is considerably less awkward than the one to Crowley’s office building had been, if only because Dean was over the moon about keeping his restaurant. Sure, he’d known that he was going to get it back earlier that morning, but believing and actually _happening_ are two completely different things. Even Castiel, for all of his pouting over Michael (which was frankly too cute for words), can’t seem to stop smiling. Dean is just having trouble sitting still. His knee is bouncing up and down frantically, as though he can’t wait to get out of the car and scream to the world that he’d won.

“You’re shaking the car,” Castiel snorts.

Dean sticks his tongue out at the man. “That’s because it’s so small. If you had a _real_ car, then it’d be a different story.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Like your gas guzzler is any better than mine. At least my car is fuel efficient.”

“Hey,” Dean points a finger accusatorily at Castiel, “We may be dating, but that doesn’t give you the right to criticize Baby.”

“But Dean,” Cas faux pouts when they stop at a red light, “I thought _I_ was your baby.”

The chef blushes but smirks nonetheless. “No Cas, you’re my angel. There’s a difference.”

Castiel merely laughs and pulls into the back lot at Chiaroscuro. Both men step out of the car and head towards the shop’s entrance. Before they can go in, Castiel grabs Dean’s hand and tugs him for a quick kiss. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers. Dean smiles and nods along, not quite sure what to say at the praise. To his delight, as they step in, Castiel doesn’t let go of his hand.

When they walk in, all of Dean’s workers break into congratulatory shouts and applause. Even the patrons, who probably have no clue what it is they’re celebrating, shout and clap along like they’re part of the family. Dean laughs and steps over the foyer, only to be crushed in a bear-hug from Sam.

“You did it man,” he says, setting Dean back on the ground. He looks tired, and his hair is pulled back in the little ponytail that only ever happens when he’s working hard.

“We did it,” Dean corrects, reaching up and clapping Sam on the shoulder.

Sam looks at Castiel and smiles. “You helped a lot too, you know.”

Cas just waves him off. “All I did was be a good sport after I was drenched in wine. Don’t give me too much credit.”

Sam and Dean laugh heartily at that, but then Sam turns serious and hugs Castiel too. “But seriously, Cas, thank you. For keeping Dean sane if nothing else.”

Castiel pats Sam awkwardly on the shoulder, probably signaling the man that he can no longer breathe. “I think I drove him crazy more than anything, if this morning was any indication,” the man deflects.

The younger Winchester looks completely disgusted, horror written across his features. “Oh my god,” he shudders, “You two are perfect for each other.”

Dean grins at Castiel, feeling a sudden rush of affection. He points over to the bar, covered in glasses of champagne, and asks, “Shall we?” Castiel nods, snorting with laughter when he sees the banner hanging above the bar. _“’Good job on not fucking up and losing the restaurant’_ ,” Dean reads, completely monotone, “Very original, Sammy.”

Sam snickers behind his hand and points to Jess, who is currently checking on tables. “Blame her, it was Jess’s idea.”

“I made a mistake getting you two together,” Dean shakes his head regretfully.

“Yeah, yeah, like you can talk,” Sam says as he shoves the couple towards the bar, “There’s someone here to see you, Cas.”

Castiel looks at Sam warily, but takes Dean’s hand and walks over to the bar. Sitting on one of the round stools and making jokes with Ruby is none other than Gabriel and, to Dean’s immense displeasure, Balthazar.

“Cassie!” they call out in unison.

Castiel groans and tries to pull Dean back into the crowd, but the pair are already on top of them.

“So this is the fabled Dean Winchester,” Balthazar says, grabbing and shaking Dean’s hand before he can even register what’s happening, “I must say, even Cassie’s poems didn’t do you justice.”

“Or your ass,” Gabriel adds from Balthazar’s side.

Dean just blushes bright red and looks at Castiel for help, who shrugs and grabs two glasses filled with bubbling liquid.

“So have you two,” Gabriel whistles and makes a vulgar gesture with fingers to emphasize his point.

“ _Gabriel!_ ” Castiel growls, grabbing Dean’s hand again possessively, “Please, pretend like you have some manners.”

“Oh, come now Cassie, let the man have a little fun,” Balthazar says as he sips his champagne, “Besides, we all want to know which one of you bottoms.”

Dean feels his pulse roar in his ears in embarrassment, and Castiel adds, “ _Enough,_ you two. You’re making a terrible first impression.”

“I feel like this one is going rather better than our last encounter went,” Balthazar disagrees, “I apologize for any confusion I may have caused.”

Dean waves the man off despite himself. “It’s fine. We’ve pulled out heads out of our asses finally, and that’s what counts.”

Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows. “Are you sure it’s your own asses you’ve pulled your faces away from?”

Castiel swats Gabriel’s arm and grabs Dean. “We’re leaving,” he sighs.

Dean nods in agreement, but before they leave, he calls over his shoulder, “He’s much rougher than you’d think.” He sees Gabriel choke on his drink and grins in triumph. Castiel laughs so hard that he can feel it vibrating in his hand, which is still clenched in Cas’s.

“Interesting family,” Dean comments as they catch up to Sam, who’s busy talking to some patrons.

“They’re _something_ ,” Castiel says, “But I wouldn’t call them interesting. ‘Insufferable’ seems like a better fit.”

Dean drawls, “Awh, come one, I’m sure they’re not _that_ bad.” Castiel shoots him a disagreeing look and Dean chuckles, but drops the subject.

When they reach Sam, he points them up the stairs and says, “The real celebration is taking place upstairs. Ellen hired a band to play.”

“Ellen is here?” Dean yelps in surprise.

“Yeah well, someone had to manage the restaurant while you two were humping like bunnies,” Sam deadpans, “Just go upstairs and say hi, OK?”

“As if I could get away with not introducing my boyfriend,” Dean mutters, “I’m terrified of that woman.” Sam only laughs and follows them up the stairs. Castiel grips Dean’s hand tighter and together they rise from Perdition into Salvation. Dean can’t help but feel like there’s a deeper meaning in there somewhere, but he’s far to sober to begin waxing poetic. They quickly find Ellen and Bobby sitting at a table together.

“So this is the young man who’s stolen my boy’s heart,” Ellen gets up, gives Castiel a once over, and breaks into a grin while she shakes his available hand.

“ _Mom,_ ” Dean complains.

“Oh, come one son,” Bobby grumbles from where he remains sitting, “It was clear to everyone but your idjit-self that you were gone on him from day one.”

Dean can see Castiel glowing under the praise, and pokes him in the side. “Don’t let it go to your head, mister.”

Ellen laughs and gestures to the rest of Salvation. “Why don’t you go enjoy the party right now? We can talk more tomorrow about how stupid Dean was.”

Despite Dean’s protests and insistence that he was ‘only doing what I thought was best, Goddamnit’, Castiel quickly whisks him away to the center of Salvation, where couples are slowly dancing to the string quartets surprisingly soothing rendition of ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’.

Castiel tugs Dean in by his hand and holds him close, forcing them to sway together.

Dean nods pointedly to their joined hands. “Little tight there. You planning on letting go soon?”

“Never.” Castiel answers, surprisingly serious, “Or at least not for a long while. I just got a hold of you.”

Dean gulps, staring straight into Castiel’s eyes. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, with the fairy lights twinkling bright as the stars and the warm summer breeze, but Dean feels something akin to love sweep through his stomach. Before he can stop himself, he says boldly, “You saved me, you know.”

Castiel looks at him incredulously. “I didn’t save you Dean. You saved yourself.”

Dean shakes his head. “Maybe, but… I couldn’t have done it without you. The restaurant and everything else. Just, thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?” Castiel cocks his head to one side, “If anything, _you_ saved _me_.”

“What?”

“I just… You don’t know what I was like. Before I met you, I mean,” Cas clears his throat. “I had commitment issues, to say the least. The last healthy, functional relationship I had had was, uh, back in high school. I guess you could say that my work was my life.” Castiel pauses here, taking a deep breath. “But you showed me there’s more to life. There’s so many things to feel and experience and you proved to me that I’m actually _human_.” Dean snorts at that. “No, seriously, I felt out of place all of the time, like I was from another planet or something. I never felt completely comfortable with someone outside of my family and Balthazar. I guess I was just waiting for the right person.”

Dean blushes and buries his face. “I don’t even know what to say to that, angel.”

Castiel just shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

The two men fall into a comfortable silence for a while. The quartet ends the last songs and seamlessly transitions into ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’. Dean could laugh at the accuracy of the song choice. He’s so into the music and just _feeling_ what’s around him for once that he almost misses what Castiel says next.

“You were right, you know. Earlier,” Castiel says quietly.

“What’re you talking about?” Dean questions, still only half-paying attention.

“I love you.”

Dean stares at Castiel in surprise, jaw working and throat clenching. He doesn’t believe the words at first. For a moment, all Dean can feel is fear closing in on him, and then he meets Castiel’s eyes. There’s such honesty and raw emotion in them that he can’t help but believe him.

The world around him seems to burst with color, more vibrant and alive than ever before. He takes in the scene before him: the string quartet playing, Sam and Jess dancing together, giggling at some stupid joke, hell, Ellen even managed to coax Bobby into dancing. The quartet plays, and Dean breathes in deeply.

The air smells like jasmine, the scent of roasted chicken and peppers mingling perfectly with it. The breeze is warm and tickles the back of Dean’s neck. From the rooftop, he can see the skyline illuminated on the backdrop of the night sky: velvety black and dripping with moonlight.

It hits Dean suddenly like a ton of bricks. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped in the arms of Castiel, on a rooftop in New York city, surrounded by family and friends. And suddenly he wants to scream, to shout from the rooftop how happy he is, how _right_ everything feels.

Instead, he settles on saying:

 

“I love you too.” 


End file.
